


Madame le Muet

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-14 21:24:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7190996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for Tumblr prompts, Porthos' household post series so SPOILERS! Madame le Muet is mine, she's not a spoiler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. for Acaitstuff, domestic

Madame le Muet grumbles when Elodie comes into the kitchen, to begin with. Elodie understands, her mother was a servant. The kitchen is Madame le Muet’s domain, as cook. However, Elodie wants to cook. She likes cooking. She has a woman who looks after Marie-Cessette, and doesn’t know what else to do with her time. So she ignores the grumbling and plays the eccentric mistress. She’s good at it. It comes with exotic dresses, which are hell to cook in but also very amusing. She ties an apron over the top, ties one of Porthos’ bandanas over her hair, and makes bread and pastries.

Madame le Muet gets used to it. By the time Porthos returns to Paris, two months into his general-ship, she’s enough used to it that she holds Marie-Cessette while Elodie cooks a welcome home meal for Porthos. The nurse, Madeleine, has returned home to her village, only fifteen and terribly homesick. Elodie has agreed to pay her a months’ wages if she comes back to Paris after that time.

Madame le Muet is used to her mistress puttering about the kitchen, and enjoys the company of the little one, Marie-Cessette. But when Porthos returns early, hat under his arms, belt festooned with sword and knife and pistol, powder and munitions, and comes striding into the kitchen without waiting in the hall for Monsieur le Muet to take his cloak and weapons and hat, she starts badly.

“There she is,” Porthos says, presence filling up the entire room.

He makes for Madame le Muet, and Madame le Muet comes close to fainting. Porthos takes Marie-Cessette, swings the little baby into his big arms, and holds her close, pressing kissing to her soft skin, laughing. Elodie watches, waiting her turn. Porthos looks up from the child and grins at Elodie, holding out an arm, baby comfortably fitting in one. Elodie fits herself into the other and Porthos jerks his chin up.

“Eh?” he says, eyebrows raising.

Elodie obediently lifts her own chin, and Porthos grins again, kissing her fiercely. He pulls back to laugh, then kisses her gently. Then he kisses her warmly. Elodie accepts each, sighing, leaning into him.

“Would you like me to finish this, Ma’am?” Madame le Muet asks, interupting.

“No, thank you,” Elodie says.

Madame le Muet sits, expecting to have the baby handed back to her, the husband to leave the kitchen. Neither of those things happens. Instead, Porthos leaves his cloak and hat on the table, his belt and weapons on a chair, ties on an apron, and joins Elodie cooking. He keeps the baby in one arm, and chops things one handed, as much of the food getting in his mouth as in the meal. Madame le Muet looks on, mute.

“The Queen wants me for something,” Porthos says. “Mm, Marie? Yeah, little heart, your Papa’s famous and important, at the beck and call of royalty, no less. I think our minister wants to see me, also. The damned fool is thinking of appointing a terrible man to rule Paris. It’ll consolidate Louis’ hold on the country, when he reigns, apparently. Terrible man.”

“Don’t talk politics. Those are small enough, surely. Stop distracting yourself,” Elodie says, taking the vegetables and knife from Porthos.

He shrugs, and wanders off, finding the bowl of bread. He holds it up in question, and Elodie nods, so Porthos washes his hands and tips it out, kneading it with fervour.

“Haven’t done this in a while,” Porthos says. “Thank you, dear lord, for lettin’ me taste good bread again.”

The baby starts to cry, and Madame le Muet thinks surely, surely order must regain a footing now. For the child’s sake. But no, Porthos just laughs, bouncing her, holding her to his shoulder.

“Am I not paying you enough attention, ma chérie? I am sorry,” Porthos says, kneading one handed, humming and dancing a little. The baby quiet, then laughs, hand and head resting on Porthos’ big shoulder.

“If you drop her in the dough, I’ll cut your beard off,” Elodie says, unconcern rolling off her.

“Oh no, not my beard! Your maman is a cruel woman, little bird. Did you hear that? My beard!” Porthos says.

He thumps the dough onto the table, then rolls it expertly into shape for two loaves. He steps back, rubbing his hand over his apron-clad stomach, satisfaction thrumming through him. He shifts Marie into his other arm, so he can see her face, and presses a thumb to her nose gently, setting her laughing.

“Are you covering her in flour?” Elodie asks.

Porthos looks up, calculating. He growls and strides to Elodie, wrapping his arm around her, pulling her against his side where the baby’s not resting. She shrieks, then laughs, leaning back into him, resting her head back.

“I’ll cover you in flour!” Porthos says, rubbing his face against her neck and shoulder, beard scratching lightly.

“Let me go, let me go. What will the servants think?” Elodie says.

“Elodie, we are cooking. I am cooking, you are cooking. I stormed the kitchen with a pistol. I think Madame le Muet is passed shocking,” Porthos says.

His eyes find Madame le Muet’s, and he grins at her. She blinks back at him. He winks. She gasps. Elodie covers her mouth to keep from laughing, but Marie-Cessette shows no such reserve, a happy peal of baby giggles ringing out. Porthos’ attention is drawn, and he lets Elodie go, lifting Marie up, over his head, flying her through the air, flour dancing after them. He sings as he goes, head tipped up to watch his daughter.

“Madame le Muet, if you’d take over here, I’ll take my husband upstairs, out of your hair,” Elodie says.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Madame le Muet says, getting to her feet.

“I like cooking,” Porthos protests, settling Marie in his arm again, looking around for something to do.

“Leave it to me, monsieur,” Madame le Muet says. Firmly. Porthos grins at her again, laughing lightly. 

“Very well,” he says, bowing slightly. “I promise to only shock your delightful sensibilities once in awhile, Madame. I will behave with decorum, if that would please you.”

“Your manners are not charming enough to erase the image of you dancing about covered in flour,” Elodie says.

Marie giggles, then throws up milk all over Prothos’ apron. He beams, and beams. Madame le Muet softens, just a little. Her own husband had always been a soft touch with their children. Her father had been hard and absent, but her Monsieur had been gentle and kind, and had loved his children without decorum or formality. Porthos reminds her of that, and she finds herself smiling, shaking her head.

“There you go,” Porthos says, catching the smile on her face. “I knew I got the right person for this job. I will leave you to your kitchen, Madame. Let me know if you have any complaints about your position, or want for anything. I’m only back in the city briefly, so now’s your chance to air your grievances with your terrible mistress.”

Elodie whacks his shoulder, and Porthos beams again, eyes bright with joy. Madame le Muet just shakes her head and puts the bread in the oven, turning away. Porthos removes Elodie’s apron, then his own, then passes Marie over to Elodie so he can brush the flour off himself and gather his cloak, hat and belt. They sweep out, arm in arm. Porthos hands his things off to Monsieur le Muet, who’s hovering in the hall.

Elodie takes him up to the bedroom, asking Monsieur le Muet to bring up some water, at his own convenience. She sets out a blanket on the floor and lays Marie there, sitting beside her. They watch Porthos strip out of his travel worn clothes, Marie enjoying the changing light as he moves around the room, the clink of his belt buckle, the thud of his boots. Elodie enjoys the light, too, as it moves over Porthos’ skin, the beauty of his muscle, how sturdy he is, how strong. He turns, by the window, down to his smalls, and laughs at her regard.

Elodie gives him a brazen look, then beckons him over. He comes and kneels, and she examines him, searching out new scars, new marks. She knows his skin well, though they hadn’t had much time before. She knows the new marks, too, from his letters. He tells her these things, knowing somehow that it reassures her to know. She presses a thumb to the snick of a knife below his ribs, glanced aside by his armour but still deep enough to scar, to need a stitch.

“She’s grown,” Porthos murmurs, his attention on Marie as Elodie’s is on him.

“Yes, that is what babies do,” Elodie says. “She’s four months, now. She is also smelly.”

“Are you? Little mademoiselle, little smelly mademoiselle? Better come up here with Papa, then,” Porthos says, lifting her, untangling her from bonnet and blanket.

He has her naked, her napkin bundles up ready to be cleaned. He hasn’t put a new one on yet, and Elodie is just waiting for him to get peed on. Gillette comes in and gasps before that can happen, though. Their maid sets down a basin of water and takes the naked baby from Porthos’ naked chest, rushing her away to be changed away from the esteemed master. Porthos pouts.

“Let them,” Elodie says, gently, caressing his shoulder and pressing a kiss there. “I know this is new to you, to have others care for the child, but surely you must have seen it enough to know?”

“I know,” Porthos says, under his breath, eyes on Gillette’s back. “Grew up doin’ it, though. My own daughter.”

“No grumbling. Wash yourself, you smell, too,” Elodie says brightly.

She stills him, though, before he can rise, and cups his face, pressing their foreheads together. She kisses him deeply. She loves him, for his past, his present, all of it. She loves that he knows how to care for Marie, knows how to change the napkin, knows how to quiet her and entertain her. Porthos rumbles wordlessly, a sulky grump, then laughs and gets to his feet to wash.

Gillette returns Marie-Cessette before leaving them alone, and Elodie undresses the baby again, down to the napkin. Porthos is out of even his smalls now, completely naked. He’s striding about the room, enjoying himself, examining things, opening and closing doors to closets and cupboards. He opens and closes the bedroom door, then grins and opens it again, vanishing into the room.

Elodie follows, and finds him sprawled over the bed, on his back, looking blissful. She deposits Marie-Cessette on his bare chest, and his bliss bubbles over into gasping giggles. He reaches and grabs her, pulling her down too, nudging and tugging at the stays of her dress. Elodie snorts, but undresses herself until she’s down to her slip. She lies down next to Porthos, and he sighs happily.

“Welcome home,” Elodie says.

“Thank you, for making it a home,” Porthos whispers, eyes shut, fingers moving over the cloth at her belly. “I love this. You, our baby.”

“Being naked,” Elodie whispers in his ear, laughing.

“Mm,” Porthos agrees.

He sounds sleepy. Elodie strokes over his head, threading into his hair, and he rumbles again, going limp. He’s asleep within moments, Marie-Cessette following him, her little chuffing snores offset by Porthos’ deep breathing, snuffling. Elodie breathes deeply, and watches them.


	2. for rhesascoffee, wounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos is brought home wounded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: critically injured, fever, wounded. see end for notes on 'critical'

_Captain de la Fère,_

_I am writing to you on behalf of the General du Vallon’s household. It has been brought to my attention that neither Captain nor madame d’Artagnan have had a chance to write, and Madame du Vallon is preoccupied with other things. It isn’t good news that I need to convey, I’m very much afraid it will come as a shock to you. The General has been brought back to Paris. He is wounded. It is the fever that has us all worried. We thought it best to send for you. He calls for you, sometimes. The mistress, Minister d’Herblay, Captain d’Artagnan, and you. They are already present. We think it best if you make as much haste as possible._

_Yours,_

_Madame le Muet,_

_Housekeeper (temporary)_

“Madame le Muet, could you have fresh water brought?” Madame du Vallon asks.

Madame le Muet looks up from blotting her letter. The mistress has been looking pale and worried more and more, but now she just looks down right afraid. Madame le Muet hurries up and sees to it, calling in one of the maids. They have a bustling contingent of servants, now, to see to every one of the master’s needs.

“Anything else, Ma’am?” Madame le Muet asks .

“Could you sit with him? Constance is with him right now, but she has to go, she’s got duties that need seeing to. Both Aramis and d’Artagnan are away right now, and I need to spend five minutes with Marie-Cessette, she’s setting up a racket,” Madame de Vallon says, voice fraying at the edges, hair coming loose.

“Of course, Ma’am. Wouldn’t the nurse be better than I, though?”

“No. He doesn’t recognise the bloody nuns, and he hates them for some reason. Please, just five minutes.”

“I’ll sit with him longer than that, if you like. You take a rest, spend some time with the child. You know he won’t forgive you if she’s not happy as anything, when he comes back to himself, Ma’am. He dotes on her,” Madame le Muet says, bustling through the house.

The master’s set up in a room downstairs, for the moment. Madame le Muet catches hold of the maid taking the dirty water away, and makes sure the letter will be sent off as soon as possible, then she steps into the room. It’s dark, the curtains drawn and shutters closed. Hot and close, smelling of sickness, rotting flesh, sweat. Death.

Madame d’Artagnan looks up, and manages a weary smile. Madame le Muet gives her a nod and goes to watch as Madame d’Artagnan cleans the puss and blood away from the wound in the General’s thigh.

“Mamman?” the General mutters, shifting, hand fretfully feeling over the sheets.

Madame le Muet moves to the head of the bed and leans over him, so he can see her. His eyes are wide open, but they shut on a slow blink, only opening to slits. Another slow blink, and he’s back to wide-eyed.

“Antoinette,” the General murmurs, hand lifting an inch then falling back.

“Madame le Muet,” she corrects. Then, when his confused gaze finds her again, she softens, taking a cloth and wiping the sweat from his face. “But, yes, Antoinette is my name, monsieur.”

“Porthos. I’m Porthos. I’m… please, I’m Porthos.”

“Porthos, then,” Madame le Muet says, rinsing the cloth, starting again.

Her master’s eyes close and he’s out again, as far unconscious as he ever gets with this fever. Restless and unsettled, but not quite awake. Madame d’Artagnan apologises, and leaves them. Leaves Madame le Muet alone.

“Antoinette, indeed,” she says. “Not even I think of myself by that name. Even Monsieur le Muet doesn’t call me that. Wherever did you hear it?”

The General is beyond answering. Madame le Muet sits with him for a long time, washing his face, wiping the sweat from his chest, the pus from his leg. Holding a clean cloth to his lips so he’ll suck and drink a little. The doctor comes, eventually, and Madame du Vallon with him. Madame le Muet leaves, returning to her work.

**

“Madame? Madame le Muet? Are you in here?”

Madame le Muet looks up from the scolding she’s giving one of the chamber maids, and finds Minister d’Herblay peering into the room. It’s her small parlour, and it’s rare for any of the noble folk to come back here. Madame le Muet sends the maid on her way, straightens her apron, and nods him in.

“I’m here to inform you that Athos will be arriving, at some point. He’s going to ride, come quick as he can. His, uh, his wife and child will take a little more time, should be here the day after tomorrow, or there abouts,” the Minister says.

“There’s a bell, monsieur, if you need me,” Madame le Muet says.

“Yes, I know. It hurts Porthos’ ears, even if I ring it from another room,” the Minister says, sighing, rubbing over his face.

“We’ll have to think of something else, then. Send one of the maids, perhaps,” Madame le Muet says. “We have had rooms prepared for Captain de la Fère and his child, and his wife, for the past few days. It is I who wrote to him.”

“Oh,” the Minister says, looking helplessly around. “Oh. I suppose it must have been. Alright, then.”

“There’s also a room made up for you, if you’d like to stay,” Madame le Muet says.

“I would love to, but I cannot. I have duties at the Louvre, I actually have to head back there now. Thank you for thinking of it. Um, the doctor’s here. I think Elodie might like some company.”

Madame le Muet curtsies and sees the Minister out, then goes to the sick room. Madame du Vallon is in the hall, head bowed, listening to the doctor. She shakes her head, as Madame le Muet comes up.

“No, no. No, sir. He is weak, amputating the leg will just make him weaker, if it doesn’t kill him at once. Besides, it’s almost certain to get infected. No. We keep cleaning it out, and treating his fever,” Madame le Muet says. “I have another medical person coming to see him, soon. I’ll get their opinion first. Until then, just… just don’t let him die, please?”

The doctor sighs and huffs, then stalks from the house. Madame le Muet sees him to the door and shuts it firmly after him. She’s not having anyone cutting off her master’s leg. She returns to Madame du Vallon’s side, and guides her to a chair, helping her sit.

“I’m so tired. Oh, Madame, what shall I do?” Madame du Vallon says. “I love him. Our daughter loves him. I know, I mean I knew there was always risk. He’s a soldier. But to have him die like this.”

“You’ll comfort him, and make him easy, help him rest,” Madame le Muet says. “That is quite enough. Now, however, you will go and rest, with Marie-Cessette. I will sit with the master. You’re worn out.”

“Yes. I am tired. Just, if he needs me, send for me.”

“I will,” Madame le Muet says.

She watches her mistress to the stairs, then slips into the room. The General whimpers at the light. When she moves close, she can see tear tracks on his cheeks. She takes a cool cloth and wipes them away with the sweat still beading there, setting about soothing him once again. He moans under her ministrations, fists clenching and unclenching. His head moves weakly, towards and then away from the cloth, shaking with first heat and then chill.

“Shh. Easy, monsieur,” she whispers, stroking the cloth over his hot skin. “Easy now.”

Madame le Muet has a familiar routine for this, now, and falls into it. The rhythm of the cloth, sending for fresh water, talking to the master, is becoming ingrained. She’s humming, cleaning the wound, when a stranger walks in. He’s damp, passing a cloak to Monsieur le Muet as he strides in, hair long and drawn back from his face. He’s scarred, dark, and looks intent. Madame le Muet rises, drawing a dagger from her skirts, secreted there to see to thieves, after their neighbour was robbed a fortnight ago.

“Porthos,” the man says, not noticing her or her knife.

He hurries to the bedside, sitting on the sheets, hand trembling over the General’s chest, then resting there firmly, rubbing.

“Athos,” the General murmurs, stilling under the hand, head moving to see his visitor. His eyes don’t open, but he lets out a long sigh and relaxes. Madame le Muet stows her blade. “Ath.”

“Hello, brother. You’ve really gone out of your way this time,” the Captain de la Fère says, voice warm and affectionate.

The General whimpers, shifting, restless again already.

“Hey,” the Captain says. “Hey, now. Hush. Ah, mon ami, these fevers. Hush, though. Hey, listen to this. Sylvie taught me, for Raoul. My son, remember him? Alright, hush.”

The Captain starts to sing, high and light, a little hoarse. The General relaxes again, head pressing into the pillow. A shudder goes through him, another whimper. The Captain looks up, eyes burning, and raises an eyebrow at her. She quickly rinses a fresh cloth and hands it to him, understanding. He never removes his hand from the General’s chest.

Madame le Muet leaves them alone, going to refresh the water, and see if the mistress is awake to be informed of the visitor.

**

Captain d’Artagnan slips through the house like a ghost, so silent Madame le Muet is never sure if he’s been. He sits with the General, hat held between his knees, and cries openly, like a child. The General watches, eyes heavy. Madame le Muet sees it many times, coming and going with the maids to replace water, redo sheets, bathe the master, clean him up.

“I wish he’d wake enough to eat these,” the Captain says, one day, making Madame le Muet jump.

She’s in the kitchen, finding solace in her old domain. She looks at the pastries cooling, and slides a few over to him. Captain d’Artagnan smiles at her and eats two, then hesitates, then takes a third.

“For Porthos. He’d approve,” the Captain says.

“He’d eat the lot,” Madame le Muet says.

They both look at the pastries, and laugh. They sit down and eat every single one of them.

**

Marie-Cessette cries for an entire night. She doesn’t sleep. Madame le Muet listens, and goes to walk with her for a while, to give her nurse and her mother a rest. She cries and cries, as if her heart is breaking. And in the morning, the General is worse. His sheets and clothes are wet from sweat and other fluids, blood and pus staining the sheets. When they move him to change him and the sheets, he moans weakly, not waking, and cries like his daughter.

Her piercing wail starts up again somewhere in the house, and the General’s eyes move under his lids, as if searching for her. Madame le Muet does her best to soothe him, and then the child, and then him. Madame du Vallon switches with her, rushing one to the other of them, face paler each time. Then Captain de la Fère walks in, takes one look, and walks back out.

They congregate. Captains d’Artagnan and de la Fère, Minister d’Herblay. In the hall outside the room, they gather, wordless, touching one another. They come in as one, and kneel in a line by the bed. The Minister prays, Latin falling easily from his tongue. Madame du Vallon comes in guided by Madame d’Artagnan and Madame de la Fère and they kneels, also. When the Minister is done they rise.

“If he passes, you won’t be alone, Elodie,” Captain d’Artagnan says.

“Porthos, dear God,” Minister d’Herblay says, voice a thready croak. “Dear God. If this be our parting… I won’t… I can’t. Athos.”

“Though I walk in the shadow of the valley of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me: your rod and your staff, they comfort me. He doesn’t fear death, he has faced it many times. He will go peacefully, and he will be at rest,” Captain de la Fère says. He sits on the edge of the bed, and cups the General’s waxen cheek. “Porthos. My dear Porthos. You listen to me, listen to your Captain, right? This is an order. If you can, hang on and we will help you, the pain will lessen. If you are ready, though, let go.”

“Athos!” Madame du Vallon cries, knees giving way. “No!”

Madame d’Artagnan and Madame de la Fère catch her and ease her into a chair, where she sobs.

“You may let go. You are brave, and strong, and we love you,” the Captain continues. “So strong. Always. You may be weak, if you are ready, let go. We won’t hold you here. We will care for one another, and for your daughter and your wife. We will be well, and they will be well. You can let go. My dear friends, my dear… Porthos, my gentle Porthos.”

Then the Captain kisses Porthos’ forehead, lingers a moment, then strides from the room, door knocking into the wall outside. There’s silence, except for the mistresses sobs. Madame le Muet goes to close the door, and sees Captain de la Fère, kneeling in the middle of the hall, head tilted back. She closes the door on the scene in the room and goes to crouch by him. She takes hold under his arm, and pushes until they’re both upright. Then she half-drags him to a room where there’s a chaise, and lays him there.

“Porthos,” the Captain whispers. “I had to. He’s been strong long enough. If he… If he dies, I…”

He makes a sound that’s just like the whimpers the General’s been making, and then he goes very still, eyes wide open, breathing hard. His wife comes into the room.

“I’m here. You may go, Madame le Muet. Thank you very much,” she says.

“Sylvie. I need him.”

“I know.”

“No, no. He can’t die. Pray for him.”

She kneels. Madame le Muet leaves them.

**

The General’s fever breaks that night.

**

“I was so scared. It’s terrifying for me, to be left, to leave. To be alone. You have no idea, Aramis, what it is to be alone.”

“After Savoy-”

“No. No, no, you don’t get to do that. No. I was five years old. Imagine being five, and there being nobody. No one to hold you, to touch you, to tell you what to do, where to go. No one to help you dress. No one to feed you, or find you a place to sleep. Five years old, Aramis. Completely, utterly alone. You know this. You know it. You lef’ me.”

Madame le Muet finishes tucking in the sheets. Minister d’Herblay is looking at her sideways, waiting for her to leave. She bundles the dirty linen into her basket, and hesitates. Her master is crying. He’s not feverish, anymore, either. It’s not the fever. He must be tired. It’s not that though, she can tell it’s not that. Madame le Muet hurries from the room.

She presses the basket into the arms of a passing manservant and runs toward the nursery, where she can hear her mistress playing with Marie-Cessette. Madame le Muet has always known proprietary, her manners, but she bursts into the room and forgets it all. Madame du Vallon leaps to her feet, face paling.

“He’s fine,” Madame le Muet says, breathless. “But he’s upset.”

Madame du Vallon nods, and lifts Marie-Cessette into her arms. Madame le Muet follows her back to the sick room, wanting to see, to make sure. She slips inside and stands, invisible, by the door to watch. Minister d’Herblay is kneeling on the floor, the General’s hand held in both his own, looking earnestly at the General’s tear-stained face.

“Kept dreamin’, kept dreamin’ it. Only it wasn’t dreams.”

“Of course it was.”

“No, ‘mis, it weren’t. It were memories.”

“Porthos, look who I’ve brought to see you?” Madame du Vallon says, gently, stepping forwards.

Marie-Cessette lets out a piercing shriek of joy and tries to leap from her mother’s arms. Madame du Vallon laughs and moves quickly to the bed, sitting, letting the child fall against the General.

“Oh,” Porthos says, blinking down at the little blond head, the little arms stretching around to hug him. “Oh. Hello, little one.”

“Pa-pa-pa-pa!” Marie-Cessette babbles.

Porthos lifts an arm to cradle her, letting out a shuddering breath. Then he beams. His teary face turns sunny, and he uses his returning strength to scoop Marie closer to him, sighing into her hair. Madame le Muet slips away. For the rest of the day, when she’s in the sickroom, Marie-Cessette is there, cradled to her father’s chest. He whispers to her and they laugh together and nap together, and his joy at being able to have her with him again is enough to set the whole house alight with good humour.

**

Madame le Muet is used, by now, to having her master and mistress in the kitchen. She’s also become used to the others poking about the servants’ halls to find them. She feels, though, that now the master can bear the bell they ought to be left alone. There, though, is Captain d’Artagnan, and Minister d’Herblay, sitting in the kitchen side by side, gossiping. Madame le Muet dumps the master’s tray on the side loudly, and gives them a pointed scowl.

“How is he, this morning?” the Minister asks lightly.

“Bad tempered?” the Captain asks.

“Give him peaches. He loves peaches,” the Minister says.

“And pastries.”

“Out!” Madame le Muet says, forgetting herself for a moment.

The Captain laughs, but both men scramble up and out, giving her fond, amused smiles on their way. Like little boys, she thinks, and they vanish down the hall. A few minutes later the master’s bell rings. Madame le Muet sighs. She stopped sending Gillette yesterday, though, after the master talked her into letting him sit up, and attempt to stand. That had ended badly. Madame le Muet hurries through.

“I was wondering,” Captain d’Artagnan says, grinning at her. “Is there such a thing as a pack of cards? Porthos has lost his.”

The two men are sat, their feet up on the master’s bed. The General is slumped against his mountain of pillows, glaring.

“I don’t know, I can have a look,” Madame le Muet says, thinking her husband probably has one.

“Fine!” the General says. “They’re under me pillow. I am bored of cards, though. I don’t want to play cards. I want to go for a walk.”

“You can’t even sit up, mon ami,” Minister d’Herblay says.

“I could too. Where’s Athos? When can I see Marie? Where’s Elodie? My head hurts. My leg hurts.”

The stream of compliants carries on, but Madame le Muet doesn’t stay to hear it. She’s heard it before. She returns to the kitchen, and sits for five minutes. Then the bell goes again. This time it’s the Minister asking for wine. The master’s asleep, and Athos has joined them. The cards are out. She goes to get them wine. When she returns, the mistress is there, too, bending over the General.

“Elodie, get off me head. I said it hurts, that don’t mean I want you to stroke at me,” he grumbles. “Athos, where is your son? I want to see him. I only met him once. And where’s Marie? I want my daughter. Elodie, I want her.”

“Not yet,” the mistress soothes. “Not yet. Shh. Go back to sleep. Rest easy, we’re all here.”

“God damn it, Porthos, go to sleep you idiot,” the Minister mutters.

The General sputters with laughter, then sighs out a long breath that ends in a congested snore. Madame le Muet leaves them once more.

**

“Antoinette, I’m so bored. Can Marie come play again?”

“No, she’s napping,” Madame le Muet says.

“She could nap in here.”

“No, monsieur. You are supposed to be resting, also.”

“I’d rest really nice, if she was here.”

“No you wouldn’t, we tried that, monsieur. You wouldn’t sleep, keeping watch over her.”

The General sighs heavily, then sighs again, then again. Madame le Muet ignores it.

“Antoinette, are any of the others still here? Maybe Athos’d like to play cards.”

“No, monsieur, he is busy.”

“Busy hiding, along with the rest of them.

“Antoinette.”

“Where ever did you learn that name, General? It doesn’t belong to me.”

“Oh. You told me, once. I was drunk.”

Madame le Muet remembers, suddenly. A year into his Generalship, he’d been home, very drunk, very unhappy. She’d found him lying on the kitchen floor, mumbling. He’d asked her, and she’d told him on the promise he’d go to bed for it.

“It is yours, isn’t it, Madame le Muet?”

“Yes, Monsieur, it is the name my parents gave me. It isn’t one I ever use.”

“Okay. Can I-”

“No. You must sleep.”

Captain de la Fère slips into the room and smiles sheepishly at her.

“Still not resting, Porthos?” he asks, climbing onto the bed, boot kicked underneath. “Come on, mon ami. Time to rest.”

The General butts his head lightly against Athos’ shoulder and grumbles wordlessly, then goes limp and quiet. The Captain sings. Madame le Muet sneaks away.

**

Once he can manage standing, it’s impossible to keep General du Vallon in bed. The contingent of servants is shrinking as he heals, and Madame le Muet spends most of her time in the kitchen. The General begins a habit of sneaking in, when she’s not there, sitting himself down next to the stove, and dozing. She doesn’t have the heart to send him back to bed, when he does that. She tells the mistress about it, but the mistress says to let him.

He’s sat there, one day, tucked in the warmth. He has Marie-Cessette with him, napping against his broad chest, resting on his good thigh. His other leg is stretching in front of him. Madame le Muet is making sweet pastries, and the General is watching her closely, waiting for his moment. She slides a tray from the oven, setting it on the table and carefully removing each pastry. She can feel his eyes boring into her back.

“You know,” the General says, thoughtfully. “I’m a little hungry, Madame. Is it time for a meal, do you think? Well, not quite, I’m sure. Perhaps something, though? To tide me over, like.”

“There’s some fruit, Monsieur?” Madame le Muet says, keeping her back to him so he can’t see her amusement.

“Mm. Perhaps. Perhaps something a little sweeter. You know what else? I’m a little chilled. Just a little, mind. Not enough to be sent back to bed. But, a little. Perhaps something warm.”

“I can’t think of anything like that, sir,” Madame le Muet says.

“Oh.”

He sounds so crestfallen. Madame le Muet stifles her laughter, and draws a plate to her, transfering two pastries to it. She turns. He’s looking down, face calculating his next move. He glances at his daughter, then up, mouth open to speak.

“Marie might like- oh!” he says, brightening sharply on sight of the pastries, beaming across his whole face.

Madame le Muet sets the plate at his elbow and slides the last tray of uncooked pastries into the oven, before turning her attention to the bird she needs to pluck for the evening. She has two, as Captain de la Fère’s family is still staying. She hopes there’s enough meat.

“Madame. Antoinette. These are the crumbliest, sweetest, best, most delicate pastries I have ever tasted, and Aramis has taken to bringing me treats from the palace kitchens so that, is saying something.”

Madame le Muet smiles, keeping her attention on her task. Madame du Vallon comes into the kitchen, then, and the General guiltily nudges the plate away, looking anywhere but at the pastries cooling on their racks.

“I came to take Marie, not to stop you indulging your appetite,” the mistress says. “I thought you might like a rest.”

“No,” the master says. “No, I’ll keep ‘er here. Tucked in safe, eh?”

“If you like,” the mistress says, sitting at his side.

She reaches over, picking up the end of pastry still left on the plate and popping it into her mouth. The General makes a soft, wounded sound, and Madame le Muet can’t help herself: she laughs.

**

Madame le Muet sighs as the bell in the salon rings again. She’s grown used to having under-servants to send in her stead. Now it’s just her, Monsieur le Muet, and Gillette again, and she’s feeling it. She finishes setting up the tray and carries it through. Sitting around are all four of the men, Madames d’Artagnan, du Vallon, and de la Fère. There are soldiers by the window. Madame le Muet would question that, but she knows her master is important, so she doesn’t.

“Thank you,” a smooth, cultured voice says, when she sets the tray down.

Madame le Muet starts a little, then straightens, turning to curtsy to the guest. Then she recognises the face and sinks almost to the ground, staying bobbed, head bowed. Her cheeks flush, and she fixes her eyes on the ground, not sure what to do next. She’s never been taught royal protocols.

“Madame, you may go,” the General says, voice gentle and warm, and understanding.

Infinitely understanding. Madame le Muet takes the chance given and scurries away. She leans on the wall in hallway. She spots her husband and rushes to him, clutching his arms, trying to explain.

“Madame, please. Hush. What is it?” he asks her, hand caressing her cheek. “What has happened, ma chérie?”

“The-the-the… the queen is here,” Madame le Muet whispers.

Her husband stares at her, then grins. They tiptoe to the door of the salon, left open a little, and both peer in. There she is, sitting next to the General, with a glass of wine in her hand.

“She’s beautiful,” Madame le Muet whispers.

“Look at her dress.”

“Her hair is perfect.”

They grin at each other again.

“Is he, now? I thought his favourites were apricots,” the General says, laughing.

“It is entirely your fault, Porthos,” the queen says.

Her voice is light and airy, so cultured, so rich. She sounds amused. The le Muets smile at each other again, a little breathless with excitement.

“I only gave him the one pastry. He must’ve had them before, anyway.”

“No, I managed to keep them away from his little fingers, before you came in and fed them to him! Louis is now forever sneaking into the kitchens and scaring the servants,” the queen says, laughing.

“They’re talking about the king!” Monsieur le Muet hisses.

Madame le Muet nods. Then the General rises with a groan, stretching his bad leg, and begins to limp towards the door. He’s ever so slow, today, which gives them time to scarper to the other end of the hall, and pretend to be involved. General du Vallon comes over to them, moving faster now, grinning widely.

“So?” he whispers, grin turning conspiratorial. “Did you get a good look? I left the door open enough, eh?”

“Sir!” Madame le Muet squeaks.

“Oh, come now, Madame. First time I met ‘er, I nearly fainted dead away. Then the king came out, and poof. I was gone.”

“He’s not lying,” Captain de la Fère says, joining them silently as is his way. “I witnessed his fall. Great big lad, third day in the musketeers’ uniform, crashing to the ground at the Louvre like a falling tree.”

“Oi, less of the tree,” the General says, nudging the Captain.

“Did you get enough? If you want to speak to her majesty, I’m sure-”

“Athos, stop teasin’ them. We’ll leave the door a bit open, so you can watch. I give you my wholehearted permission to listen at doors, today. Oh, and get Gillette and Madeleine, let them see too,” the General says.

He turns and limps away, back towards the salon. The Captain watches him go, then turns back to them.

“He was born in the Court of Miracles, and now he sits drinking wine with the queen, her confident, her trusted General,” the Captain says.

“He’s a great man, but he doesn’t forget where he comes from,” Captain d’Artagnan says, materialising. “He knows what this means for you, he wants you to enjoy it.”

“A great man, but also a good, kind, loyal one,” Minister d’Herblay says, walking up. “You’d do well to relax a little, and allow him to indulge you. He’ll enjoy your enjoyment.”

“Gentlemen?” the mistress calls, sticking her head out of the salon. “What are you up to? Why is my husband sitting giggling to himself? Come back here, I want you to explain! He’s certainly not going to manage it, daft button that he is.”

The three men bow slightly, and stride away. Madame le Muet sighs, and leans into her husband, feeling honoured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no one dies :)


	3. for rhesascoffee, children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for @rhesascoffee, who was kind enough to prompt me for another venture into the world of Madame le Muet. This time, there are many children, only Athos and Porthos in charge, and growing chaos.

Madame le Muet’s first inkling that anything is wrong is a tiny little ‘oh dear’ from under the table. For some reason, she’d been under the impression that ‘there might be a few people here’ had meant something other than ‘I am going to fill the house with children, and only captain de le Fere and I will be here to supervise’. Even when she’d realised her master meant the latter, she hadn’t realised quite how hopeless he and captain de la Fere were going to be. After all, they had two-a-piece, now, and neither was a man who shied away from being left with his children.

Madame le Muet ignores the little voice under the table and keeps on with the dinner. She told her master she was not going to play nursemaid, and she is going to stick to that. No matter which little person has done what under that table. Another little ‘uh oh’ emits, and Madame le Muet’s curiosity almost gets the better of her. She gets a grip on herself, and keeps on chopping the carrots.

“Have you seen Francois?” General du Vallon asks, coming into the kitchen.

He’s in his shirt-sleeves, Kitty, d’Artagnan’s first, still only one and a half, tucked under an arm. He’s got mud on his face. His hair’s got bits of ribbon tied into it in messy knots. Madame le Muet points under the table, and chops.

“Francois?” the general asks, bending to look under the table. “Uh oh.”

“Yep. Uh oh, Papa,” Francois says.

He crawls out, beaming all over his little round face, completely naked. Madame le Muet tuts. Francois crawls back under and then returns, towing his clothing after him. He stands up, proud as punch, and holds out his arms. Not only is he naked, his plump little body is covered in jam.

“Aw, you took ‘em off to keep clean? Clever!” the general says, taking the clothes from Francois and examining them. “Oh. You took them off to keep clean but only after getting jam all over them.”

“Yep. Uh oh,” Francois says. “Oh dear.”

“Come on then, this one needs a bath, too. Might as well dump you both in the tub. Gillette’s getting the water,” the general says.

He scoops up Francois and tucks him under the other arm. Kitty kicks her legs and gabbles, making horse sounds, kicking at her uncle. Francois catches on and shouts giddy up, clutching his father’s arm. Both children laugh happily as the general lumbers off towards the wash room. Seconds later a streak of little girl sprints through. Madame le Muet recognises Marie-Cessette, shrieking for her father. On her heels is Raoul.

There’s a crash, and then the general shouts, and then the two six years olds race back through the kitchen, this time Marie-Cessette on Raoul’s heels, little feet pounding. Captain de la Fere comes to the door, but when the children run past him, he turns and follows them. Madame le Muet puts the carrots into the pot and starts on the potatoes, ignoring the sounds from next door. Gillette comes and goes with water, and the crashes turn to splashes.

Next is Lucie, Athos’ youngest. Just four, her fist in her mouth, she goes toddling through unsteadily towards the noise. Madame le Muet follows her to make sure she doesn’t fall down the step. She watches the little girl bump down on her bottom, then tug off her dress, then topple headfirst into the copper tub, naked bottom up in the air.

“Oh lord,” the general says, saving Lucie from drowning, righting her. “Alright, my lamb?”

“Pip,” Lucie says, then she laughs her wild little laugh, scoops up some water, and dumps it on the general’s head. Kitty shrieks and hits the water with her fists, and Francois gets up to his feet, stamping, bending to soak his father.

Madame le Muet sniffs and goes back to the kitchen. She adds the potatoes to the pot and puts it on the fire to cook, then starts on the pastry. The general comes out when she’s rolling it out, a parade of damp, but clean and dressed, children behind him. Madame le Muet notices that Kitty’s drowning in Lucie’s dress, and Lucie’s stuffed into Kitty’s, but she doesn’t mention it. Nor does she mention the jam she spots behind Francois’ ear.

Gillette comes into the kitchen, dressed to go out. She looks frazzled and a little wild eyed. She gabbles something about her afternoon off, and scarpers. Captain de la Fere is on her feels, asking for her to come read to Marie-Cessette, but she’s gone. The captain turns to Madame le Muet, but Madame le Muet just tuts and gets on with her cooking, going to take the vegetables off the heat.

There’s a shriek and a crash from the inner house, and Madame le Muet listens to make sure no one’s hurt. When she hears laughter, she goes back to her pie. She’s got the case in the tin, and the meat mixed with the vegetables. She puts in the stuffing in, and the lid on, then slides it into the oven. Captain de la Fere comes in with Lucie on his hip.

“Do you have a pastry or something sweet?” the captain asks. “Porthos tripped over Francois, and Francois thinks he ought to cry now.”

“If he’s not hurt, he’s not getting sweets,” Madame le Muet says. “That’s the mistress’s rule. Same goes for the master- unless he’s hurt, he’s not having sweets. He’s setting an example for the little ones.”

“I don’t think he is, but I see your point,” the captain says, with a quick smile. “Hear that, Lucie? No sweets for the boys. What shall we get them instead?”

They leave the room again. Marie-Cessette slinks in a few moments later, climbing into the chair by the range that her father likes best. She sits quietly, watchful gaze on Madame le Muet as she plucks two hens.

“Antoinette?” Marie-Cessette says, eventually.

Madame le Muet nods to show she’s listening, and gives Marie-Cessette one of the pretty feathers, for her collection. Marie sticks it behind her ear, and she looks just like her mother, for a moment.

“Uncle Athos says that Frankie looks just like Papa,” Marie-Cessette says. “I don’t look like Papa.”

“Oh yes you do, especially when you get that stubborn look on your face. Or when you’re angling for a pastry. Or when you go stomping through the house singing,” Madame le Muet says, evenly.

She’s learnt not to react to Marie-Cessette when she has her doubts. As she grows, she’s beginning to understand that the general is her Papa, her father, but also not her father. She’s also become very aware of her pale skin, her blond hair, and her mother’s features on her own face.

“Yes, but I don’t look like him. Not the way Frankie does,” Marie-Cessette says. 

The general comes into the kitchen, then, and interrupts the conversation. He’s got Kitty in his arm, a cloth over his shoulder, a bottle to her mouth. Raoul is riding on his shoulders, clutching his hair.

“Marie? There you are. Did you get anything out of Madame le Muet? No? Come on back and play, leave her to her work,” the general says.

“I’m talking, Papa,” Marie-Cessette says, voice imitating the particular lilt that Madame le Muet usually hears in the queen, when General du Vallon has done something her majesty disagrees with.

“Yeah? Bothering the servants at their work, more like. Come on, out of the kitchen, you know you’re not allowed in here unless you’re invited,” the general says, less patient than usual, voice lowering to a growl.

Marie-Cessette goes, head held at a haughty angle.

“She was telling me about how much Francois looks like you, sir,” Madame le Muet says, with just a small note of reproach.

“Oh. Again? Bloody hell. Sorry, Raoul, I didn’t say that.”

“Up, uncle Pip! Giddy up!” Raoul says, pulling at the hair in his fists.

The general winces, but turns and leaves the room again. Madame le Muet finishes plucking the bird, and sets it in the pan with the seasoning, putting it on a low fire to simmer and soak up the tastes. There’s the sound of arguing from the house, and then Lucie comes thudding in, lower lip stuck out in a pout, little arms crossed over her chest. Francois follows, poking at her.

“Lucie goosey, you’re a goose, you’re a goose, you’re a GOOSE!” Francois calls, laughing, dancing around and around her.

“Not!” Lucie shouts, giving him a shove.

He falls, and then bawls, bringing Captain de la Fere running. The captain’s got Kitty now, still not napping, and Marie-Cessette is trailing after him, thumb in her mouth. She looks tired. Madame le Muet nearly steps in, but she’s still got another hen to add to the pan, and then there are the breads to get in the oven.

Captain de la Fere removes the children, and Madame le Muet gets the dough out, thumping it onto the table. The house goes quiet, and she gets her kneading done and the loaves shaped. Then there’s a thud, some loud singing, some shouting, and then another, sudden, silence. Madame le Muet slides the loaves into the oven, checks the rest of her cooking, and goes to investigate.

Everyone’s in the hall. Francois is naked again. Kitty’s asleep in the general’s arms. Raoul and Marie-Cessette are facing off in the middle of the others, but looking a bit unsure. Lucie’s sat on the bottom step of the stairs. The captain is stood two steps above Lucie. No one’s speaking.

“What is going on?” Madame le Muet demands, and everyone starts talking at once. She holds up a hand, and points at Marie-Cessette.

“Papa slipped on the stairs, and bumped Lucie down one or two, and uncle Athos was angry about that, and Raoul said that my Papa was a menace, that that’s what they call him, General Menace, and then uncle Athos said that actually they call him- well, something else, that was quite rude, and then we all shut up, because uncle Athos shouldn’t have said that about Papa.”

“Thank you, Marie. You and Raoul go up and play quietly in the nursery. Nothing noisy, I will be up in ten minutes. Ten minutes, remember, so keep it calm,” Madame le Muet says, and waits for them to go. “Right. Lucie, are you hurt? No? Good. You and Francois are going to come into the kitchen with me. We have galette biscuits to make. Go sit nicely at the table, please.”

The four children out of the way, Madame le Muet turns to the general and the captain. Porthos has his head bowed. He sniffs, and rubs a sleeve under his nose. Madame le Muet waits.

“Christ. Marie-Cessette is five,” the general whispers. “Just about, more or less, about as firmly five as I was.”

“Porthos, I’m sorry,” the captain says, coming down the steps.

“When I was like these guys, look at them. Look at their clothes, look at their houses, listen to how they speak! Athos, they’re a world away. What am I going to know about them? I thought looking after children I could do. I’ve done it. I keep ‘em entertained, know stories, can play. But this lot. Look at them. Look where they’ve growd up. Got nothing, have I? What am I going to do with them? What am I ever gonna do with them?”

“Love them,” the captain murmurs, wrapping his arms around Porthos. “You do wonderfully, Papa, you really do. Even this afternoon, with all of them. What use have I been, hiding in the corner? There you were, catching Raoul when he fell off the book shelves, fishing Kitty out of the mud, saving Lucie from falling down the stairs, getting a napkin on Kitty before she weed on the floor again.”

Madame le Muet covers her mouth. It’s no good, though, the laughter’s getting out. Both men turn to her, and she shakes her head, peels of laughter ringing across the hall.

“Used to be, they’d all be little street rats, climbing a shelf, falling down stairs, in the mud? That’s just normal. Climbed on everything, quick and nimble. Gotta be, to get our food. Invisible, quiet, even if we was hurt. You cry, you get clobbered. Nothing like this, not like in this house.”

Madame le Muet stops laughing. She goes to the general and holds out her arms for Kitty. The baby’s passed across, still asleep. Madame le Muet leaves the men together, and goes through to the kitchen to supervise the little ones. She settles Kitty in a box, all softed out with blankets. It’s safe and warm enough, and she sets it warm near the range but out of the way of danger.

She, Francois and Lucie are cutting the dough into circles when Raoul and Marie-Cessette come through. Marie-Cessette’s looking a bit worried, but they both get stuck in cutting out the shapes and transferring them to sheets, to the oven. Madame le Muet ignores their little squabbles, and they peter out quickly. If it gets too far she tells them to stop, listening to neither side, just holding up a hand until she gets quiet.

They’re working calmly and happily, when the men come through. The general sits in his chair by the range, and Marie-Cessette at once climbs into his lap, giving him a hug.

“Papa,” she says, patting his cheek. “Are you sad? You looked sad, sat on the stairs there with uncle Athos.”

“Just a little, ma chérie,” the general says. “I was remembering my own childhood, when I was about your age. I got a little upset about it.”

“With Flea and Charon, and your adventures at the place where miracles happen?” Marie-Cessette says.

“Yes,” the general says. “Yes. Some sad things happened there. I’m alright. I’m happy now, thanks to that hug.”

“It was a good one,” Marie says, getting down and coming back to the table.

Francois goes next, curling up against the general’s chest, eyes closing and falling into an instant nap. Then Lucie follows, resting against Francois in a muddle, also falling asleep. Raoul and Marie keep on helping Madame le Muet. Captain de la Fere sits by the general’s feet, hand resting on his knee. Just above his knee, really. More his thigh than anything.

They’re still like that, half of them asleep, the rest calm and happy, when Madames d’Artagnan, du Vallon and de la Fere return, captain d’Artagnan escorting them. They bustle into the kitchen full of stories of the markets. Madame d’Artagnan lifts Kitty out of her make-shift crib as the child wakes, and Madame de le Fere sits with Raoul, listening to his adventure with the bookshelves.

“Porthos?” Madame du Vallon says, standing in front of him, hand cradling his cheek. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” the general says, smiling up at her. “Look at these, all asleep in me lap. They’re so little and warm, just curled up here.”

“Do you want me to take Lucie?” Madame de la Fere asks, going over.

“Oh, no,” the general says. “No, no. She’s alright.”

They settle around the kitchen, still talking quietly of the markets and their days. Captain d’Artagnan pauses by the general and kisses his hair, laughing at the ribbons still knotted there, fingers working them out. He’s still at the knots when Minister d’Herblay comes in, with a palace guard. He’s closely followed by the king of France.

Ten years old and already tall and regal, he strides into the kitchen. He looks around, spots the little group of men, and hurries over, inserting himself under captain d’Artagnan’s arm and resting there, nodding along to their conversation. The minister sits with Madame d’Artagnan and Kitty. Madame le Muet realises he’s observing, just as she is, just as avidly. Taking in the king’s every movement. Madame le Muet keeps her eyes carefully on her cooking and pushes her suspicions back, back as far as she can.


	4. for Acaitstuff: discord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angstier than I meant it to be! There's an arguement, and that leads to a lot of fuss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Porthos talks about war. Nothing worse than is in the series. Hunger, starvation, death, children effected. Nothing bad happens on screen, as it were.

 

The general comes home after five months at the front, weary, with new scars, and very, very bad tempered. Madame le Muet sticks to the kitchen and ignores the bickering and shouting in the rest of the house. Then, one day, the minister is visiting, and there’s a row that grows and grows until something, somewhere, shatters loudly. That’s followed by a tremendous crash, and then Francois starts to scream and scream.

The general comes into the kitchen, lips pressed tightly together, sits heavily in his seat by the range, and remains absolutely, stubbornly silent. Madame le Muet leaves him to it and gets on with the breads. Francois stops, and the house is suddenly and unnaturally silent. Then the mistress comes into the kitchen, looking about as grim as the master.

“Porthos, if you ever, ever do something like that in front of my children again, you will no longer be welcome in this house. Next time you leave for the front, you will not be welcome back. That was beyond anything reasonable,” Madame du Vallon says. “Do not say a word, I will not hear excuses. I am taking the children to visit the garrison, to see d’Artagnan. If you have not done something about your mood by the time we return, you will be sleeping at the garrison.”

She sweeps out of the kitchen, and a moment later the front door slams closed. Next to enter is the minister, holding his hat, eyes red-rimmed. He looks exhausted, and miserable. The general doesn’t even look up.

“I wish you’d forgive me. It was so long ago,” the minister says.

“I wish you’d ‘a chose better,” the general says, voice harsher than Madame le Muet has heard it before.

“Oh yes,” Minister d’Herblay says, catching Madame le Muet’s surprise. “This, too, is your master. He holds a grudge seven years, knocks over bookshelves, breaks bottles, terrifies his son, and talks to me like I’m no better than a dog.”

“Don’t say anythin’, Madame. Aramis, you leave ‘er be. In fact, jus’, jus’ leave. Jus’ go. Please just go.”

The minister nods and pushes out the back, slamming the door with great force. The general sighs, bowing his back and resting his head in his hands. Madame le Muet focusses on the bread, wishing her husband were here. He’s not, though. He’s at the palace, carrying out some task for the general. She hadn’t been privy to the details. Letters, or a message, or something.

“Excuse me,” the general says. “Sorry about this, Madame.”

He gets to his feet and stumbles to the back door, out into the yard. Madame le Muet looks up in shock when she hears the distinct sounds of vomiting a moment later. She listens, but it’s definitely her master throwing up his breakfast. She gets a cup of water and sets it next to his chair, and gets him a piece of ginger to chew on, setting that next to the mug.

He comes back and sits. It takes him a bit to notice her offerings. When he does he thanks her quietly. The kitchen settles around them, neither speaking. Madame le Muet knows better than to get into another family’s affairs, especially when they’re her employers.

Monsieur le Muet returns, coming into the kitchen the back way, removing his hat. He misses the presence of their master, and comes over to pull her to him, taking a pastry from the cooling rack. She slaps his hands away, but he just laughs, and kisses her. She nods her head meaningfully, and he finally sees their audience, starting, standing straight, dropping pastry onto the table.

“Carry on,” the general says. “I’m not here.”

“Yes, general. I have the reports you were after, from the cardinal, monsieur,” Monsieur le Muet says.

“They’ll wait. Leave them somewhere under a pile of the rest of the paperwork I’m ignoring, would you? Thank you, Jean.”

Monsieur le Muet goes on his way. Madame le Muet wonders where General du Vallon learnt her husband’s first name. She’d thought it was just a whim, that he’d learnt her name on, but others slip out now and then. Charles, to captain d’Artagnan. René, to the minister. Martine, to Gillette. He seems to know them all.

“‘e didn’ take ‘is pastry,” the general mumbles.

Madame le Muet offers him one, but he shakes his head, drawing a knee up and resting his head on it. She notices that he’s much, much thinner than he was five months ago. So much thinner that he can sit like that without trouble. Madame le Muet wonders if getting involved in family affairs is such a bad idea, after all. She wonders if the other have noticed the change in her master, aside from his temper.

“Monsieur,” Madame le Muet says, slowly.

“No, Antoinette, don’t. It’ll just get you in trouble with someone. Probably me. Don’t be kind to me. Leave it be, eh? If you want to help, just leave it be.”

“Yes, monsieur. Would you speak to another, though?”

“Aramis. But he’s being pig-headed. Again. Dear God, if he goes through with it. I cannot bear to lose him a second time. Dear God. I should probably sleep at the garrison, even if my wife finds some way to forgive me my anger. I can’t keep an ‘old of it.”

Madame le Muet makes him a poached egg and gives it to him with the last of yesterday’s bread.

“Sitting in the kitchen when feeling sick is going to upset your stomach,” she says.

“I’m fine here,” he grumbles, poking his egg until the yolk splits.

She’s glad to see him eat it, even though he only manages half and leaves most of the yolk in a flood over the plate. He’s staring glumly down at the mess when the back door opens, and Captain d’Artagnan slips inside.

“You’ve done it this time,” he says, removing his hat, sitting at the table, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Mind if I take one?”

He takes a pastry without waiting for a reply, eating it in two bites. Madame le Muet cuts him some fresh bread, and gives it to him with a boiled egg left from the morning, some meat, and a bit of cold pie. He gives her a grateful grunt of thanks and digs in.

“Don’t they feed you at the garrison any more?” Porthos asks, an edge to his voice.

“Nope,” Captain d’Artagnan says. “Busy morning. Busy afternoon, actually, but everyone’s angry with you and taking sides. Lots of people don’t like you flinging bookshelves at Frankie, he’s a favourite at the garrison and with the palace.”

“I never, never hurt ‘im. It was nowhere near ‘im. I never hurt him,” the general says, aghast. Then, in a very small, scared voice, “did I?”

“No, no, just frightened him. He’s used to his Papa being kind and gentle and ever so patient and slow to anger,” the captain says.

“Yeah well, this is me too. Right, Antoinette? That’s what Aramis said. I’m cranky and awful and horrible and… Oh Christ.”

The general bolts for the back door again, but doesn’t quite make it. He leans on the counter, a retch bending him double. A thin stream of vomit hits the floor, and then another surge, the egg coming back hardly digested.

“Porthos?” the captain says, getting to his feet and going to rest a hand on the general’s back. “What’s this?”

“Sick,” Porthos manages, coughing.

“Yes, that much is obvious. I’m sorry, Madame, can you-?” the captain says, gesturing to the mess.

There’s not much there, mostly bile, liquid, bits of the egg. Madame le Muet cleans it up, remembering the time the general was wounded and badly fevered, clearing up after him then too. Captain d’Artagnan leads the general back to his chair, and grabs one of Madame le Muet’s mixing bowls to set in her master’s lap. She tuts and replaces it with an old pan that’s waiting to go out to one of the poorer households.

“What’s the matter with your stomach, Porthos?” the captain asks.

Madame le Muet refills the water mug, and passes it to Captain d’Artagnan. She gets another piece of ginger, too, and then puts some water on to steam some peppermint leaves, to make a tea.

“I dunno,” the general whispers. “No. I do know. So much ‘unger, d’Art. You remember that, right? Bad rations, everything rotten, villages full of starving people, crops burnt. Nothing for miles around.”

“I remember,” the captain says, glancing at Madame le Muet.

“I remember too,” she says, glaring back. “I saw my share of suffering, I wasn’t in Paris all my life. I know what the war’s doing to the countryside, out there. I’ve seen the refugees here, been one myself. I’ve nursed enough children through that kind of sickness, seen enough soldiers half-starved.”

“Yeah. No good food, just a lot of sickness. Lots of wounded, lots of fever. Just boys, children near enough. I don’ remember bein’ that young.”

“You were fourteen, Porthos. When you joined up, you were fourteen years old,” the captain says. “You weren’t that young, you were younger.”

“Some ‘a them don’t even have beards, yet. I know you were clean till about thirty, but-”

“You never let that go. I went without a beard through choice!” the captain says. “Anyway, look at me now. I’ve even got some grey in here.”

“Kitty hates it. Scratchy,” the general says. “Anyway. Too much ‘unger, too much death, too many people just helpless and I am so, so tired of suffering.”

“Brother, are you saying you want out?” the captain says, sitting back on his heels and staring at the general. “I mean, sure, do as you like, obviously, obviously. Athos’d be happy to have you out there on their small-holding. I would take you at the garrison in a heart beat. Even the queen could probably find a place for you. We’ve all offered, many times, but your catch phrase is ‘I’ll never give up soldiering’. Like it’s all you have.”

“Is all I have.”

“Porthos. Don’t go back. Don’t.”

“Have to.”

“Praise and glory, praise and glory. You have a family, friends, everything you ever wanted. You know better than anyone that you either get out or you die there, in that field, in that blood, with that ball in your flesh, burning you. You get this tired of it, you die. We’ve seen it enough times. Or you become like General Lantier. Uncaring of your men.”

The general bends over his pan and throws up until there’s nothing coming, just dry heaves. He sits there and shakes, and the captain just crouches in front of him, rubbing his leg, holding his knee, being there. Madame le Muet finishes her cooking for the morning. She looks around, and then she ties on her hat and takes her cloak and goes out, shutting the door quietly behind her, leaving them alone.

She hurries to the garrison, knowing that she shouldn’t get involved, but unable to keep out. She goes to the d’Artagnans’ rooms, and knocks, waiting patiently. Planchet, their man, opens the door. Kitty’s on his hip, his round stomach a comfortable and familiar perch for her. Francois is on his shoulder, a hand over one eye.

“Madame, can I help you?” Planchet says.

“I need to speak to my mistress, I have a message,” Madame le Muet says. Lies.

Planchet shows her into the hallway and leaves her there. Francois turns and waves, nearly bangs his head on the doorway, and then they’re gone. Madame le Muet is left waiting nearly ten minutes, and when she comes out Madame du Vallon looks hard and angry. She raises her eyebrows, face cold, and just waits.

“Madame, he’s hurt,” Madame le Muet says. “Inside. He’s sick, and he’s hurt, and he needs you.”

“He has to learn to keep that under control, and away from the children. It’s not good enough to just brush it off as hurt,” Madame du Vallon says. Then she softens. “But if it’s bad enough that you’ve come for me, without being sent, I will return with you. Let me get my things, and talk to Constance about having the children. Is d’Artagnan at the house?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Madam le Muet says, curtsying.

They walk back at a more seemly pace. Madame du Vallon steps into the kitchen, clearly meaning to keep hold of her anger. General du Vallon is sat on the floor, though, curled against captain d’Artagnan, held in place there. As they step inside, he retches, heaving up nothing but air.

“Shh. Hush, I’m here. I’ve got you,” the captain says.

“Porthos,” Madame du Vallon says, rushing over and kneeling at their side, hands fluttering and then settling on him, rubbing his shoulder, cradling his face. “Porthos. Is this the dreams? Like in your dreams?”

“Not dreams,” the general says.

“Memories,” the captain says grimly.

“Good lord,” Madame du Vallon says. “No. Porthos? Are they? Memories? The ones you’ve been having now?”

“Yeah. ‘cept Francois, an’ Marie-Cessette. My little heart, she’s safe, i’nt she? Not… not there in the mud?”

“Yes, yes. She’s with Constance, safe and sound. With Planchet and Constance, learning how to parry with a wooden sword when I left her.”

“Elodie. He left me to that, and now he wants to marry ‘er. He can’t marry the queen of France, he can’t. It don’t work like that, it just don’t. They’ll hang him, they’ll take him away and he’ll not ever come back from God this time. His accursed God.”

“Porthos!” Madame du Vallon says. “Don’t speak of God like that in this house. Whatever our beliefs, this kitchen at least is-”

“Yeah, alright. Sorry Antoinette. Oh, my belly hurts.”

He leans away from Madame du Vallon as his stomach heaves again. Madame le Muet doesn’t know what to do, so she gets more water, and then calls Gillette to heat a pan and set it between the master’s sheets, prepare his bed for him.

“Thank you, Madame,” the mistress says. “I think lying down might be a good idea. I’m still angry with you, Porthos. You can’t behave like that in front of the children. But that can wait. Lets look after you first, yes?”

“I think it’s Aramis,” captain d’Artagnan says. “I’ve seen him do this before, once, a long long time ago. In the first years of the war with Spain, Athos and Porthos and I were fighting without Aramis. He’d left us. Porthos did not take that very well. We came across a village, pillaged, crops burnt, people left dead or as good as. Porthos went completely to pieces. I found him, up away from our camp, huddled on the ground, terrified out of his mind. Aramis left him to that, he kept saying.”

“Well he’s not leaving you this time,” Madame du Vallon says firmly. “If he tries, I shall go after him and give him a piece of my mind. If they try to hang him, I will go and cut him down. God help anyone who tries to take him from you, be that the cardinal, Aramis, or God himself.”

“Okay,” the general says, his head resting heavily against the captain’s breast.

They get him on his feet, and Madame du Vallon and the captain help him slowly from the kitchen. Madame le Muet sits, taking a breath.

*  
Elodie sits on the side of the bed, watching her husband sleep. He’s curled up like Francois, tucked tight into himself. d’Artagnan’s sitting in a chair by the window, loathe to leave. She understands.

“He’s coming apart. How did I miss this?” Elodie whispers, stroking Porthos’ hair.

It’s shorn off, short against his scalp. Lice, he’d said. Sickness. Heat.

“His anger can veil a lot. He’s a frightening man, when he’s at it, and when it’s aimed at you? Yeah, I can see how you’d miss the softer bit of him unravelling. He needs rest, and care, but I think… I think he needs out. I want him out. Of the army, of the political wrangling, of the cardinal’s grasp. Maybe not forever, but for a long time.”

“Sylvie wrote to me,” Elodie says. “She’s been visiting the Belgarde estate. Eleanor Lavesque died three months ago, and left everything to Porthos. He’s told no one, except for me. He doesn’t want the title and everything about his father just makes him unhappy. We asked Sylvie to have a look around, see what she can do with it. She wants to turn it into a beguinage. She knows women who desperately want to start such a place.”

“It sounds like a restful place.”

“The estate is rich with hunting, has good soil for planting. Between us, Sylvie and I could turn it into something. I don’t think he’ll want to leave Paris, or the army. He doesn’t know what to do without them.”

“I may have an idea about that. Aramis will be back, before long. Let me have a word with him?”

Elodie nods. She lies down behind her husband and wraps him in her arms, pressing her face to his shoulders. They’re less broad than she remembers, and there’s a trembling in him, even this deeply asleep. She closes her eyes and cries a little, knowing she’ll never get to know what happened to him. Not really. He tells her of his physical wounds, but of the blows he takes when he sees the terrible things he must? She is kept far from that.

d’Artagnan slips out at some point. He moves like a ghost, barely stirring the air and not making a sound, so Elodie misses it. She just notices, at some point, that he’s no longer sat there. She stays on, not wanting to leave Porthos alone. At some point she’ll have to go fetch the children, and find a way to keep them and Porthos in the same house safely. That shelf came so close to Francois. He’d never forgive himself if he hurt one of them. She knows she’d never get him back from that.

“Elodie?”

She turns her head, and sees d’Artagnan and Aramis in the doorway, Aramis looking pale and red-eyed, still, but sheepish instead of angry. She sits up and they come in, shutting the door carefully and quietly.

“I’m sorry, for earlier, that shouldn’t have happened here. I knew better than to push him in such a mood,” Aramis says, sitting next to her, looking at Porthos. “I’ve already married her, though. Or she’s married me. In secret. No one but the priest knows. I have a feeling that Milady has seen to it that this particular secret will never get out.”

“She has a ruthless streak, doesn’t she?” d’Artagnan says.

“She’s securing the throne for our- for her son,” Aramis says. “She’s a woman, and Spanish, and regent. She has to take power where she can get it.”

“You’re married to the queen,” Elodie says. “Aramis.”

“I know,” he says. “Trust me, I know. I need to not be in Paris, at the moment. The queen agrees. If I were to go to my friend’s estate, to take a couple of months, even a year, away from the city, and leave it in the cardinal’s hands, I think it would only be a good thing.”

“If Aramis is there, I think Porthos will go,” d’Artagnan murmurs.

“I think he might,” Elodie agrees. “We can talk about it as keeping you out of the Châtelet.”

Aramis nods, and d’Artagnan huffs out a long breath, looking at Elodie. She nods as well.

“What’re you three plottin’?” Porthos mumbles, waking slowly. “‘Mis?”

“I’m here. I have some bad news, though,” Aramis says.

“You done it already, haven’t you?” Porthos whispers. “You have the brains of a fucking snail, you know that?”

“I know,” Aramis says. “I need to leave Paris, for a few months at least. I don’t know where to go. You know what I’m like, somewhere quiet and empty will never keep me occupied. I’m sure to find trouble. I can’t go back to the monastery, I don’t think I can live like that again.”

They wait, and watch as Porthos digests all the information. Then he sighs.

“You want me to go to the Belgard estate,” he says. “All ‘a you. You cooked up this scheme to make me do it. You’re stayin’ in Paris, if I refuse?”

“Yep,” Aramis says, cheerfully, smiling widely. “Staying here, and sure to get into too much trouble, sure to just let the ring fall. You know how I am with dropping things. Handkerchiefs, rings.”

“Marie-Cessette will love it. She’ll get to live with Raoul, and Lucie. Francois will adore the horses we can keep there, and they can both run more wild. You want that, I know you do. You want them to find some independence, and learn self-reliance. I know you value some of the things you learnt growing up, and don’t feel them safe enough here in Paris to learn them,” Elodie says. “I would like to live among women again, to build something, to create a community. Anyway, Sylvie’s already decided to do it.”

“I am not gonna be the one as tells Athos he’s moving house,” Porthos says.

“We’ll see,” Elodie says.

d’Artagnan laughs, sitting on Porthos’ other side, reaching for him, cradling his cheek.

“Brother, you have given everything. Let us take care of you, find some peace. And then come back to Paris and find me, and help me at the garrison. Whenever you like. Or stay there forever, whiling away the hours hunting, growing things. Learn to live, to live without fear and violence and the rest of it. Please. I love you, I am tired of seeing you hurt like this,” d’Artagnan says.

“You’ll come? Aramis? You promise?” Porthos says. “What about Louis?”

“The General du Vallon has covered himself in glory many times over, and is one of the queen’s closest confidants, advisors. I think no one would comment, if she were to make a visit, now and then, to such a man’s estate,” Aramis says.

“That’s me, Elodie. When you married me, did you think of this? Confident and advisor to the queen of France,” Porthos says, turning over and resting in her lap, gazing up at her, all softness, anger leeched from him.

“There you are,” she murmurs. “There you are. I’ve missed you. No more anger, no more shouting.”

“Can’t promise that. No more knocking things over and throwing stuff, though. I scared them?”

“Yes, you scared them.”

“Won’t ever do it again.”

“Good. Aramis, d’Artagnan, thank you. Could you give us some space, please?”

They file out, each kissing Porthos on their way past. Then she’s alone with her husband. For the first time, properly, in six or seven months. No children, no anger, no rush to prepare to leave. Just he and she. Elodie lies back down and takes him into her arms, and holds him.


	5. At the estate, for Rhesascoffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the estate, Madame le Muet, and oops some gay got in I am not at all sorry, everybody is queer, rainbows rainbows rainbows.

 

Madame le Muet is not surprised that her kitchen at the estate is much bigger than her kitchen in Paris. Nor is she surprised by the staff there- the cooks and maids and boot boys and so on. Nor is she surprised when Madame de le Fere comes and sits, in the evening, with Madame le Muet. She is surprised by the turn of conversation, though, and the offer. 

 

“I am not Athos’ wife. We never married. I am Sylvie Hubert,” is where it begins. 

 

“I was born to a poor man, and grew up like you, in a village. My father taught me to read, and taught me many things about building a life that did not mean bowing down. But you and I are no further apart in status than you and Mousqueton,” is where it goes. 

 

“When people come here, Elodie and I have decided to give them the choice. We have given it to the rest of the staff already. The choice is to work and be paid, live a life as you wish, as an employee to the Belgarde estate. As servants to the Marquis de Belgarde, General du Vallon. Or to live and work as part of the community we wish to build. The payment will be in home and food and an equality of sorts. This estate will be two-fold. It will be the community, and it will be the Marquis’ country seat. The Marquis is a show. The estate pays its servants, Porthos shows his face as a wealthy landowner, the estate is ostentatiously run as an estate. Behind that facade, however, it will be run by a community, as a farm, looking for safety, self-sufficiency, equality,” is where it ends. 

 

Madame le Muet chooses to stay in the kitchen and be paid, but when she’s asked to find a nurse for the young children, and suggests her daughter, her daughter chooses otherwise. To be part of the community. Madame le Muet listens to her daughter, and agrees that she will, if Julie wishes it, live as part of Julie’s family. As part of the community. She gives up her pay and he position. She still works in the kitchen, but now she eats with the community, alongside Captain de la Fere, Madame Sylvie Hubert, General du Vallon Marquis de Belgarde, Madam du Vallon. 

 

This shift in her status and quality makes her uncomfortable, but every day she moves a little away from being a servant, and builds herself a little more of a life and self. The shift also means that her master spending time in the kitchen goes from being something he does slightly sheepishly and apologetically, to something he does without shame. He even takes over some of the cooking- coming down early to knead the breads; bringing the children to make the crêpes Madame le Muet learnt from her husband’s family, in his native Brittany; coming in from the kitchen-garden he and the captain have started, covered in soil, bringing some growing thing or other. 

 

Madame le Muet becomes easier around him, and begins to think of him as ‘Porthos’ more often than not. He’s too full of life and laughter, too eager to ignore position and formality, for her to think of his status in French politics much. He is also still far too thin, and sometimes she’ll catch him sitting, expression absent, glazed. He reacts to ‘Porthos’ much better than any title, in those moments. 

 

Madame le Muet also finds herself thinking of Madame Sylvie Hubert as simply ‘Sylvie’. Sylvie comes and goes, gathering Madame le Muet to go through supplies and check lists and orders. She and the mistress sit in the kitchen, late at night, drinking wine and gossiping while they talk about their dreams. How they might build the perfect world here, on this estate. They invite Madame le Muet to join them, and she does, sometimes. 

 

Once morning she comes in from the garden with some herbs to add to one of the breads, the way Porthos likes, and finds him standing in the middle of the busy, hot room, hand to his breast, gasping for breath and sweating. Mousqueton is stood with him, seemingly waiting for something. As Madame le Muet enters, Porthos suck in a noisy breath, and the stir of servants glance anxiously his way. Mousqueton glares until they get back to work. Madame le Muet moves closer, and gets a glare of her own, which she tuts at. 

 

“What is going on?” she demands, reaching out. 

 

“Don’t,” Mousqueton says, firmly but gently. “Touching him in such a moment as this has been known to cause injury.”

 

“Injury?” she asks. 

 

“To whoever touches him,” Mousqueton says. “I’ve been the General’s aide for two years. In the past six months or so, he has been having these moments. Fear, I believe. Paralysing fear. I have seen it in many soldiers. He’ll come out of it. I just wait.”

 

“Does the mistress know?” Madame le Muet asks. 

 

“I do not get involved in their affairs. I have the title of secretary here, but I am still the General’s man. I have my place.”

 

“And I mine,” Madame le Muet says, understanding, ducking her head and gathering her herbs. 

 

“That is not what I meant. Two years has taught me something of the General’s temperament. Place is for those who wish to keep it, is to aid those who need or wish it. Status is a construction created for each new room one walks into. Here, I believe, is your domain.”

 

Madame le Muet nods, and goes to boil some water. She sifts through the bunches of herbs hanging to dry already, and plucks a little from this, a little from that, filling a mug with water and the dry leaves. She adds some fresh mint, and then searches out the small jar of honey, twisting a spoon into the mug. She sets the whole thing in front of Porthos, and waits with Mousqueton. 

 

“Oh…” Porthos mutters, breathless, high. “Kitchen.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Mousqueton says. 

 

“Smells sweet,” Porthos whispers, taking a shaky breath. 

 

“It’s the tea,” Madame le Muet says, nudging it forward a little. 

 

Porthos sinks into the chair, and wraps his hands around the mug. Madame le Muet nods in satisfaction and sets about her work, leaving the General to recover. Mousqueton bows and leaves, also about his work, and the tension seeps from the kitchen, the usual chatter starting up. One of the maids laughs, and that breaks the last remaining anxiety. 

 

The captain wanders in, Lucie on his hip, looking more like a beggar than a lord. As is his habit. He also looks about five minutes from his bed, eyes heavy with sleep. He slumps next to Porthos, setting Lucie in Porthos’ lap, and rests his head on an arm on the table. Porthos presses a kiss to Lucie’s forehead, bounces his knees a little, and finishes his tea. 

 

“Guess that’s me told,” Porthos says. “Gotta get to work, eh, little one? Got things to do. What are those things today? Do they involve a trip in the cart, into the town? We can dress as lords and ladies.”

 

He rises from the table, Lucie held to his chest, and leaves the room. Athos raises his head and watches, eyes narrowed. Then he looks over at Madame le Muet and raises an eyebrow. Madame le Muet focuses on her bread kneading noisily. 

 

“He had a moment of panic?” the captain asks, pulling over the empty mug and sniffing. “Chamomile, passionflower? Aramis used to give the same.”

 

“And some mint,” Madame le Muet says. 

 

“Ah, yes. He likes the leaves, in the tea, doesn’t he? Aramis should be back from the convent, today,” Athos says. “The nuns who wrote to us should be accompanying him. They both want to work in the kitchen, heaven knows why when they can read and write and we need teachers. Can you read and write, Madame?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Madame le Muet says. “A little.”

 

“Then you shall be one of our teachers.”

 

Madame le Muet can do nothing but gape as he gets to his feet, takes a peach from the bowl of fruit set out, and leaves the kitchen. Sylvie comes in looking for him and they pause in the doorway to talk quietly, then Athos goes about his business and Sylvie ducks into the kitchen, grinning. 

 

“He’s impetuous. He tells me he told you that you ‘might teach’?” Sylvie says. 

 

“He said ‘you shall be one of our teachers’,” Madame le Muet says. “I can make the alphabet, Madame, and form words, and I can read my bible, but that is all.”

 

“That would be enough, for the moment. If you wish it, you can teach. If you’d rather not, don’t let him bully you with his enthusiasm,” Sylvie says, also going for a peach.

 

“We’ll have to grow those,” Madame le Muet says. “Everyone wants them.”

 

“Porthos has news from the front that suggests we may get a wave of refugees, some of them might come here. Some may be farmers,” Sylvie says, eyes brightening. “If we have more people, we can do more. I’ve had three more servants come to me asking if they can join the community, instead of working, so that’s a good start. They’re helping Athos make the house weather-proof right now.”

 

“I don’t think I’d like to teach, Ma’am,” Madame le Muet admits, setting the last bread to rise. 

 

“Then you won’t teach. Anything you think you might like to try?” 

 

“No, Madame, I am quite happy here.”

 

Julie sighs at her for that, and suggests she take the opportunity to try something. Madame le Muet kisses her daughter fondly and tells her she’s much too old for such things. Then she brings out her knitting, and sits close to the fire, to prove it. 

 

She does end up trying something new, though. By accident. They do get refugees. Sylvie is the one who initially deals with them; finding them living space, food, water. Getting them settled in and introducing them to the estate. They bring with them, though, a man badly wounded. Aramis is away again, gone on what Porthos calls his pilgrimages and what Athos calls his bloody annoying wandering offs. As far as Madame le Muet can work out, Aramis wanders about the countryside and sleeps under the stars, reads and thinks, and writes poetry. Poetry that everyone seems to agree is uniquely terrible. Then he sends it to the queen, according to Elodie. 

 

Whatever it is Aramis does on his wanders, it is left to the rest of them to deal with the man’s injuries. He’s carried to the big dining room that they rarely use, and lain on the table there. Madame le Muet brings water, heated as the master has told her many times to do. Porthos drops tools into the bowl of it and washes his hands, then sets everything out around him. 

 

Madame le Muet watches as he gives the man a bottle of wine and then starts in, fine little stitches eating up the man’s side, biting the wound together. Another line over the man’s biceps, another wound curling around to his elbow. Then his forehead. When Porthos is done, he washes his hands again, and steps back, brow furrowed. 

 

“I’m used to soldiers, fields,” Porthos mutters. “I should be able to do more for him. Teas to take away the pain better than the alcohol, herbs to make him sleep, things to settle his stomach. Aramis knows.”

 

“I know,” Madame le Muet says, surprised as she realises how sure she sounded, how sure she is. 

 

She does know herb lore, has known it all her life, has treated her children and husband many times, advised friends. Has treated Porthos, Porthos’ children. Porthos nods, not looking the slightest bit surprised, and leaves. Leaves the man entirely under her care. She has cared for people before, under instruction from doctors or masters. This is new, though. She orders the servants to bear the man to a bed, and hurries to the kitchen to gather what she needs. 

 

“This is well-done,” Aramis says, quietly, two days later, when he inspects Madame le Muet’s work. 

 

“I have had some aid from Sylvie,” Madame le Muet says. “Her father was well versed.”

 

“Not a lot of help,” Sylvie says. “I never cared much for medicine, I only know the basics.”

 

“And I know nothing,” Elodie says, slipping in with Marie-Cessette, who has grown fond of the injured man. 

 

The child goes to the bed and sits, taking the man’s hand, and starts telling him a story. He’s still fevered, but he responds to her and listens, and gives a short one of his own in return before sleeping again. Marie-Cessette holds out an imperious hand, and Madame le Muet sets a cool cloth in it, letting her bathe his face and neck. 

 

“We should change his bandages, and the poultices,” Marie says.

 

“Later,” Madame le Muet says. “First we need to go to the kitchens and finish the sweet-breads we’ve been making as welcome for those who are joining the community.”

 

Marie comes willingly enough, though making it clear it is her idea, not Madame le Muet’s, to make the breads. Later, Aramis comes to the kitchen and offers her work with him, healing and learning more about medicine. She considers it, but decides she would rather cook and spend time with Julie, and help Porthos with the children. 

 

“I believe I am growing fat,” Porthos says, striding into the kitchen, Francois riding his shoulders, Raoul clinging to his back, Lucie in his arms. He crouches to let the children down, and then stands again and turns to the side, pushing out his stomach. 

 

“I can still see your ribs, Papa,” Marie-Cessette says, coming in with a bowl. “I need fresh water, Madame. Aramis is going to show me how to change Joseph’s bandages.”

 

Madame le Muet fills the bowl and Marie carries it carefully towards the door. She narrows her eyes at her father, and changes course, setting the bowl on the table and standing, hands on her hips. She goes to Porthos and pokes him in the stomach. 

 

“We need to feed you up,” She says. “Madame, teach me to make all the sweet things father likes?”

 

“As you wish, little miss,” Madame le Muet says. 

 

“No more ‘little’, if you please,” Marie says, getting her bowl again and leaving the room. 

 

“Marie is bossy and posh,” Raoul says, climbing onto a kitchen chair and reaching for a peach. 

 

“Uh-uh,” Porthos says. “We’re here to look at the garden and learn about herbs, not to eat and gossip. Onwards, come on.”

 

Raoul hesitates, hand inching a little closer to the bowl. Porthos tilts his head on one side, and Raoul scurries down and out the back to the garden. Francois laughs and runs after him, knocking into the maid, Charlotte. Lucie stays sitting on the floor, thumb in her mouth, hand holding Porthos’ trousers. 

 

“Help us out with the herbs?” Porthos ask. 

 

“Your daughter is right, you still look unwell, sir,” Madame le Muet says softly. “It has been months.”

 

Porthos grimaces, and nudges Lucie up, sending her after her brother and Francois. Then he takes a seat with a sigh and rests a hand on his stomach. 

 

“My appetite is not what it used to be. When I have my… moments of panic, or fear, or paralysis, I often get sick with them, to my stomach. I’m finding it difficult to eat,” Porthos murmurs, for Madame le Muet’s ears alone. 

 

She sits beside him and they watch the children through the window. They’re playing a game of chase or something, running after one another, laughing. Porthos sighs again and rests his head against a hand, on the back of his chair. 

 

“I love them little pipsqueaks,” he says. “Look at ‘em. I still feel it, though. The difference, you know? All these things. They’ll never know what childhood meant for me, and I can never understand what it means for them. Like an ache in me, something broke. I keep on thinking of it, these days. All the children that have been hurt by this war, and these ones get to have this life. This easy life. I am glad, and yet… sometimes I cannot help but feel something dark twisting in my gut.”

 

“I don’t understand, but I’m listening,” Madame le Muet says, accepting a bowl of peas that need shelling from Charlotte as the maid passes. 

 

“Yeah, I know. Elodie, too. She tries to understand, but she don’t. Not that she’s had an easy life, you understand. But she’s just glad her babies don’t have to have the same hardships she’s had. Glad there’s less chance of losing another father to ‘em, now I’m done fighting.”

 

“Do you miss it?”

 

“Yes. Every day. All the time. Athos and Aramis help, we still spar and practise in the yard, we teach people. But yes, I miss it. Thought I’d live my entire life a soldier, die a soldier. She asked me to live, though, so here I am, tryin’. I think you are doing the same thing, for you Julie. Finding another way to live, to make her ‘appy.”

 

“I am happy also,” Madame le Muet says. 

 

“Antoinette. I believe you. But your husband lives in separate rooms, you rarely speak of or to him. You bury yourself in this kitchen, hide here. You are welcome to do so, welcome to do exactly as you wish. Of course.”

 

“This kitchen is safe, and needs me. The heart of the home. And my husband… I love my husband, monsieur. He is my best friend, he raised my children with me, we lived a good life together. Still live a good life together. But he has never been my great passion. Not like Sylvie and Athos, or Captain and Madame d’Artagnan.”

 

“Me and Elodie don’t get a place in that list?”

 

“She’s your great passion, then?” Madame le Muet says. 

 

“She… I love her dearly, very dearly. In all ways.”

 

“I love my husband like that, but not in all ways. I would say how you love captain de le Fere, however-”

 

“Madame,” Porthos says. 

 

It comes out strangled, and Madame le Muet stops. She had been going to say ‘however, I haven’t seen you together as often, here, and perhaps should say Aramis’. Porthos clearly thinks she was about to say something else, though. He stares at her, and the fear in his eyes is familiar to her, the physical withdrawal, the speeding breath. 

 

“You love him,” Madame le Muet realises. 

 

“No. Not… not my great passion, either. He is Sylvie’s, I am happy. I have, though, in the past, thought… but, no. No, it is not… no.”

 

“I fell in love. Really, truly in love. Her name was Suzette. Is, I suppose, though I do not know what happened to her.”

 

Porthos nods, and they sit in silence, in understanding. Porthos clears his throat a few times. 

 

“I do love Elodie, in all ways,” he repeats himself, softly. “I do. She is so much, to me. Everything.”

 

“I believe you,” Madame le Muet says. “Great passion need not be instantaneous. It can grow, slow or fast. There is more to love than great passion, as well. So many things that go into loving a person, committing to them, building a life together.”

 

“Herbs,” Porthos says. 

 

Madame le Muet realises the children are tiring of their game. They are quieting. That always means trouble. She and Porthos hurry out the back and start a lesson in herb lore and medicine, half of which involves teaching the children what they can and can’t put in their mouths. Marie-Cessette comes out to listen for a while, leaning into her father’s side, arm around him. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhesascoffee's prompt: I would love to see them all at belgardes estate. We could see what Sylvie and Elodie build with the women. See more of Porthos with the kids. I love that Athos and Sylvie will be living there. Madame le Muet as a trusted servant will of course be invited to join them as housekeeper at the great estate!


	6. for rhesascoffee, queen's visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madame le Muet was in love, once upon a time. 
> 
> Porthos was at war, once upon a time. 
> 
> Aramis was married to the queen, once upon a time.

 

Julie doesn’t mind being a servant, for an evening’s entertainment. Her mother clearly doesn’t either- she’s in her element in the kitchen, bossing everyone around, including the general when he wanders in and tries to get his fingers into the food. Julie watches the flush of pleasure on her mother’s face and wonders at it. Does her mother have a fancy for the general?

***

When the minister stays out after nightfall, the general gets jittery. Julie notices it, because he spends a lot of time with the children, who are often in her care, and they pick up on it and get a bit anxious too. It’s particularly bad on the evening when they bring the minister home unconscious. It’s not even dark yet, but there’s the general, bouncing Francois on a knee, eyes skittering about the yard trying to watch all the children at once.

 

Julie’s kneeling with Lucie, examining the creatures to be found in the dirt, naming them for her, when she hears a horse and footsteps coming into the yard. She looks up, but before she can see the general gives a great gasp and she looks at him, instead. He’s gone pale, and has a tight grip on Francois’ arm. He gets to his feet and wobbles forwards, holding Francois awkwardly. Julie gets up, too, calling the children to her. They come and gather around her, watching.

 

The general sets Francois down and he runs to Julie, tugging at her skirts until she lifts him and then burying his face in her shoulder, peeking out towards his father. The general is by the horse now, lifting a body from its back and kneeling, cradling whoever it is. He lets out a bellow and bends around his burden, curling in, rocking. The bellow brings the captain and Madame du Vallon running.

 

“Oh no,” the captain says, sprinting over and falling to his knees with Porthos.

 

“Is it Aramis?” Madame du Vallon asks, crouching, setting a hand against her husband’s neck.

 

Julie looks up at the sound of the kitchen door, and sees her mother. Her eyes search out Julie, first, but finding her safe she goes to the little knot of people around the general and kneels, hands running over the body the general is holding.

 

“He’s alive,” she says, sitting back on her heels. “Porthos, he’s alive. He’s okay. It’s just a knock to the head.”

 

“He fell from ‘is ‘orse, sir.”

 

Everyone looks up to the man who brought the minister back. It’s one of the farm hands from the estate, rough and dirty.

 

“What happened?” the captain asks, standing.

 

“Don’t know, captain. His ‘orse came wandering through the field, and I went looking for the rider and found the minister lying there on the track. His ‘ead hit a stone I think.”

 

“Jacques, isn’t it? Could you stable the horse, please? And then go to the kitchen, they’ll feed you if you like,” the captain says, kneeling again, attention back on the people on the ground. “Porthos, let him go. Let Madame le Muet take a look at him, please. No, let go, come now. Come now, my friend, he is well.”

 

“He’s dead,” the general croaks. “He’s dead again.”

 

“I don’t think he’s here,” Madame du Vallon says. “He’s been doing this. Alright Porthos, it’s okay my love. I’ve got you. Let go now. Lean into me instead.”

 

The general leans into his wife with a sigh, but doesn’t loosen his grip on the minister’s body. The minister is coming around with a groan, and as Julie watches, he tries to sit up. The general just hangs on, though, not aware of anything. Julie’s seen him like that, too. They all have.

 

“Wherever you are, I am with you,” Madame du Vallon says.

 

“Shall we try something else?” the captain says. “Porthos! Let go. On your feet, soldier!”

 

“Yes captain,” the general says, struggling to stand, fumbling at his belt. He lets the minister go. He also draws his sword and holds it in a shaky grip.

 

“Come this way,” Madame du Vallon says, guiding him back a few steps. “Let me hold that, I’m on guard right now.”

 

She takes the sword and lowers the general back to the ground, his knees giving. He huddles against her while Madame le Muet sees to the minister. Julie wants to take the children away, inside, but Marie is standing gripping her arm, and she knows Marie will not be moving. She holds Francois against her shoulder and stops him looking, though. The minister is conscious now and answering questions. The captain gets back to his feet and looks around, then comes to Julie.

 

“Take the children to Sylvie, please,” he says. “I’ll stay with Marie. He’s alright, Marie.”

 

“I don’t care about Aramis,” Marie says, tossing her head, giving the captain a scolding look. “I want to go to my Papa, but Maman says when he is like this I am to stay away and wait, so I am waiting.”

 

“And I will wait with you. Your Papa is alright. I promise you. I have known him a very very long time, this will heal in him, given time,” the captain says. “Take them away, Julie.”

 

Julie is waiting for Marie to release her arm. Marie does, but flings herself at Julie, hugging her for a moment. Julie strokes her hair until she lets go, then crouches so they’re face to face.

 

“I’ll be in the school room where Lucie and Francois like to play, Marie. You come find me there whenever you like.”

 

“I’ll wait for my Papa,” Marie says. “Where is Raoul?”

 

“Helping in the kitchen,” Julie says. “Shall I ask him to come wait with you?”

 

“No. I will find him, once I have been able to see Papa.”

 

Marie turns away, head held high once more, and holds Athos’ arm instead, gaze returning to the general. Julie takes Francois and Lucie inside. She has Thomasin and Henri under her care this afternoon, as well. They set about a subdued game, once inside, but Francois stays in her arms, snuffling quietly.

 

“Frankie?” she asks, once the others are busy. She lets go his head so he can look up, but he doesn’t.

 

“My Papa,” he whispers. “My Papa!”

 

“He’ll come see you very soon,” Julie promises, rocking the child, holding him close. “Very soon.”

 

“Ria was scared,” he whispers.

 

“Yes, but she was also certain he’d be okay, wasn’t she?” Julie says.

 

Francois nods. He’s good at reading his sister, picking up on her emotions. They wait like that, him in her arms, the others playing. The captain comes in, eventually, with Marie and Raoul. They bring platters of fruit and little flaky pastries Raoul has apparently helped make. The captain comes over and tries to assure Francois, but Frankie stays buried in Julie’s shoulder until Marie comes.

 

“He’s alright,” she says, patting Francois’ leg.

 

Julie crouches and Marie ruffles her brother’s curly hair and, when he unsticks himself from Julie, gives him a hug. She leads him to the food and they kneel side by side, heads bent close.

 

“Is the general going to come see them?” Julie asks, straightening.

 

“Porthos? Yes. He and Elodie are just sitting in the kitchen for a bit,” the captain says, eyes on his own children. “He’s a little shaken. The minister’s lying down, your mother’s seeing to him, he’ll be alright.”

 

The general and Madame du Vallon both come. Francois runs to his father, crying out for him, and the general scoops the little boy up into a cuddle. He must tickle the boy, because soon Francois is laughing and wriggling. When he’s let down, he’s back to his cheerful, energetic self, running around and knocking things over, eyes sliding to his father now and then to beam smugly about the chaos he’s causing.

 

**

 

“Mother, mother!”

 

Madame le Muet looks up from the pastries she’s folding. Aramis’ favourites, made at Porthos’ behest. She’s worried by the tone in her daughter’s voice, but it’s not fear or pain so she doesn’t stop her task. Julie comes running into the kitchen, breathless, eyes wide.

 

“What is it?” Madame le Muet asks, smiling to see her look so young.

 

“The _queen_ is coming _here!_ ” Julie whispers. “Here! The general wrote to tell her of the minister’s injury, and her majesty is coming here!”

 

“I’ll teach you royal protocol,” Madame le Muet says, looking back to her pastries.

 

“Maman! I tell you the queen of all of France, the entire thing, is coming, and you are this calm?!”

 

“She was a frequent visitor in Paris. Your father will probably be more excited, if you find him. I believe he’s out with Joseph in one of the outbuildings, looking at chairs. In fact, do go let them know, we’ll need more furniture. For me it just means more cooking.”

 

“Nope,” Porthos says, coming wandering in behind Julie and making her start and squeak. “Sorry, Madame, but I am here to ask you to prepare the house for her highness. You can just order the servants about. Make sure things are up to standard, though. She’s bringing the young king with her, and a guard, and there will be servants to house as well. Athos has the details. Sylvie will help you.”

 

“And what will you be doing?” Madame le Muet asks, not wanting to have such responsibility.

 

“I,” Porthos says, grinning, “will be persuading Aramis to stay in bed. And napping. According to you I need rest, so I shall nap.”

 

Madame le Muet scowls. She did say Porthos needed to rest, but so far he’s shown little willingness to do so. Of course he’d do so just when she’d prefer him not to be. Marie comes running into the kitchen before she can do anything about it, and Porthos gives her a smug smile.

 

“Papa, Aramis is in the play room,” Marie says.

 

“Is he, now? Not for long,” Porthos says. “Come on, my little cabbage, let’s go scoop him up and bear him back to bed.”

 

**

The king’s governess is a beautiful woman. High cheekbones; hair so thick and lustrous it escapes continually from it’s tight, intricate plaits that weave over her skull in patterns, strands curling away from her face; eyes so dark and warm; figure full and plump. Her skin is smooth and wrinkles only when she laughs. Her hands look used to books, brushes, writing, not labour. Madame Henriette Valette de Chevreuse comes with the king. Madame le Muet shows her to the king’s chambers, her own nearby, and then gives her the map of the house that Raoul drew over and over again for the servants. Madame de Chevreuse smiles when Madame le Muet tells her where the map is from.

 

“He is a sweet child,” she murmurs, voice rich and deep. “He handed me down, while his father was busy with the king. Very gentlemanly.”

 

“He has lovely manners,” Madame le Muet agrees. “When it suits him.”

 

Madame de Chevreuse laughs, and that’s beautiful, too. Madame le Muet draws her gaze away. He heart is beating hard, everything in her trilling, everything bright. She wants to reach out and touch, but she restrains herself. She is used to restraining herself. The feeling will pass, soon enough, she knows from experience.

 

“What of the minister?” Madame de Chevreuse asks.

 

“He’s quite well, almost fully recovered,” Madame le Muet says. “He tells us he is entirely recovered, but his head aches sometimes. The general keeps him in bed, often by sitting on him.”

 

“I remember him. Porthos, am I correct? Yes. I knew Aramis a long, long time ago. I aided the queen in carrying some letters, and Captain Treville sent Aramis sometimes. Or perhaps he sent Porthos, or Athos. All three of them tended to show up.”

 

“What about d’Artagnan?” Madame le Muet asks.

 

“Oh, this was long ago, before he arrived in Paris. What may I call you? Madame le Muet?”

 

“Yes, most do,” Madame le Muet says. “My name is Antoinette, but no one uses it, even myself.”

 

“You may call me Henriette,” Madame de Chevreuse says, smiling.

 

Madame le Muet really thinks she should not. She’s about to argue the point, but Marie comes in, with the king, and demands Madame le Muet come with her.

 

“You stay here, Louis, you’re not needed,” Marie says.

 

Madame le Muet thinks perhaps she should remind Marie that ‘Louis’ is the king of France, but decides against it. Instead, she follows Marie out, casting a last look back at Madame de Chevreuse. Who is looking at her, watching her go. Madame le Muet flushes. She blames her embarrassment, and the fluttering feeling still in her, for why she doesn’t notice until Marie is right outside Aramis’ rooms that there’s some shouting. Marie sits outside the door, back against the wall, and looks up at Madame le Muet, waiting expectantly.

 

“What am I to do?” Madame le Muet asks, listening to hisses and raised voices inside.

 

“Sit with me,” Marie says, face grave. “We have to wait here. Papa gets very upset when he has this argument, and Maman and the captain have taken the queen to see things, so they are not here. I have to wait, and then he can lift me up and hug me. I don’t want to wait on my own.”

 

Madame le Muet sits, and Marie leans into her, tears starting to her eyes. They can’t make out many of the words inside, but the heat of the argument is rising. Marie’s tears spill over and she buries her face in Madame le Muet’s chest.

 

“I know it ain’t reasonable!” Porthos suddenly roars, perfectly clear. “Never said it were reasonable, I said it hurt, it hurt! I needed you, so badly. I needed you to be there and you weren’t!”

 

“I could not go, I don’t know how else to say it or how many times you want me to apologise!” Aramis shouts back.

 

Oh yes, they have definitely had this fight before.

 

“I don’t want you to apologise I want you to understand and you never do. I was so scared, Aramis, I was afraid. Everyone was dying. My men, people I knew and cared for who I was supposed to lead, to look out for, and they were all dying. So many bodies, there were so many bodies and I couldn’t identify who was who, and I swear to God I tried to keep ‘em safe but we were always slaughtered, it felt like. We weren’t winning. I killed my own men, because we hadn’t the supplies to make them well. No medical supplies, no food, we were dying of disease and malnutrition and then gunned down and you weren’t there!”

 

“I know what war is,” Aramis shouts back.

 

“No. You don’t. You might’ve fought, and you might’ve seen suffering locked safe up in your monastery, you might’ve had children who knew war, but you didn’t. You don’t. You can’t. I left. Did you know that? I left Athos, I left _d’Artaganan_. Back when ‘e was still so young and raw and helpless. His first real fight and I left him. Just walked away. I’m a deserter.”

 

Madame le Muet shifts uncomfortably.

 

“I should not be listening to this,” she whispers to Marie.

 

“Porthos,” Aramis says, Madame le Muet’s shock and surprise in his voice.

 

“I went back, I did go back. No one ever knew. I told Elodie, she knows. No one else, though. I was so afraid, and so tired, and I didn’t want to fight. I was so fed up of everything.”

 

“Why did you go back?”

 

“It was my duty! My men needed me, my friends needed me, _I_ wasn’t going to abandon them to that hell. _I_ wasn’t going to leave their backs unprotected. _I_ wasn’t going to leave them to die alone in the mud!”

 

“I didn’t leave- that’s not what I meant. I know why you went back then, I know you. I meant why go back, later? When Anne made you general and sent you back. Why go, if it was so terrible? You had served your time.”

 

“It were my duty, weren’t it? Still my duty, always my duty. I’m a soldier, Aramis, nothing more. The titles and pretense is fun, it’s nice, but I am a soldier, and I fight, and that’s the end of it. You’ve known that, you know that. About me. You knew I’d never leave. You knew I had no choice. You might’ve been able to go to your nice monastery, but I never had no choices. You knew. You chose to leave me to it, anyway.”

 

“My son.”

 

“Your son, your wife, yourself. Yes, Yes, I know. But you know? My name ain’t on that list, is it? Where’s my name, eh?”

 

“Right here.”

 

“Yeah, well, your heart’s nothing but stone, so.”

 

“You’re angry, and upset, and you’re being unfair.”

 

“You died. Over and over, every body in that mud, every time I turned, you were dead. And then you come here, covered in blood, dead again. What do you expect? And then you refuse to make yourself well, and call me names for being afraid. Perhaps I am a coward, but I am scared, I am scared I am scared I am so scared.”

 

“I’m not dead.”

 

“Might as well be, you will be one day.”

 

“Yes, my dear Porthos, people die. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. Now, hush, and come here. Let me hold you.”

 

“You hurt me.”

 

“Yes, I know. I did. I am sorry for it. You are wrong, though, if you think I put my son and wife above you, or didn’t think of you.”

 

“You never wrote, and wouldn’t let us visit, and wouldn’t tell me where you were,” Porthos says, voice muffled now.

 

“That’s it. Just lie down a bit, stay here with me a bit. I know I didn’t. You’re too persuasive, my friend. You’re right, I know you and knew you, I wouldn't have been able to leave you in that hell. I’d have gone. I couldn’t, I could not, go to war with you. I would have really died. I didn’t care for myself, I didn’t want to live. I would have been a danger. I’ve told you this.”

 

“Everyone was dying, but not me. I was stood there after, always, surrounded by the dead. I wished it were me, I wish it had been me. For them boys, I’d have give my life a thousand times.”

 

“I’m glad it wasn’t you.”

 

Marie is shaking in Madame le Muet’s arms. She stands, lifting her like a child. She’s big, now, but still small enough to carry into the room. Both men look up, curled together on the bed. Porthos tries to rise, but Aramis presses him back, only letting him sit.

 

“She listening in again?” Porthos asks. “Aw, Marie. My heart. Come here. I’m not going to die, not yet. I’m sorry. I just get upset, when your uncle Aramis is silly. Come on, let go of Madame le Muet and come give me a hug, make me feel better, eh?”

 

Madame le Muet, feeling Marie’s arms loosen, passes her into her father’s arms.

 

“Sorry Madame, she has made it her duty to look to my care,” Porthos says. “I wish she wouldn’t. I just got to get them feelings out, sometimes. I love your uncle, Marie. I really do. He didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just feelings, not reason. It’s just fear in me, a little bit of weakness.”

 

“No,” Marie whispers fiercely,  struggling out of his arms and glaring up at him, hands reaching to hold his face. “It isn’t weakness to be afraid. Even to give in to fear is just something that happens, sometimes. It is strength, to find the fear and let it go. You told me that, Papa, when I was just scared of the dark.”

 

Porthos beams at her, eyes filling with tears, and he pulls her close again, rocking her. Aramis rubs Porthos’ shoulders and presses a kiss to his hair.

 

“I told you it was alright, that you were the best father in the world despite all of that,” Aramis murmurs. “See? Best father in the world. Except me, of course.”

 

Porthos laughs. Madame le Muet breathes out a sigh of relief and goes to seek out her daughter.

 

**

“I like watching her shoot,” Porthos says.

 

He’s sat on a table, feet up on the bench, tensed so his knees are higher. His elbows are resting on his thighs, his chin held in his hands, and he’s gazing at Elodie.

 

“There’s your passion,” Madame le Muet murmurs, touching his shoulder.

 

“Yeah. This is how I met her, really. She’s a proper lady, can be, but really this is her, in the end. A little wild, a little wonderful, bright and true. Look at that, right in the heart,” Porthos says, and cheers.

 

Elodie turns, and laughs at him, slinging her bow over her back and coming toward her audience. She leaves her pupils without a glance. Porthos tugs her as soon as she’s within his grasp, opening his thighs and pulling her in close, holding her head to kiss her. Madame le Muet looks away, and her gaze finds Madame de Chevreuse. The governess is stood by the queen, both of them watching carefully over the king where he’s got his bow. Aramis, finally let up by Porthos, is knelt beside him, but both women still watch.

 

Madame de Chevreuse looks up and sees Madame le Muet, meets her gaze. There’s a surge inside Madame le Muet, a bright, happy rising, and her heart rate picks up. Then Porthos laughs, a bawdy, lecherous laugh that breaks her concentration. She glances his way. Elodie is leaning on his thigh and they’re both looking out, towards the path. Where Athos is running, Francois and Marie-Cessette on his heels. He’s bare-chested, shirt in one hand, bare-foot, hair wild around his head as he comes on, laughing.

 

“What on earth is this?” Porthos asks, as Athos makes it to their position, reaching out to catch Athos’ naked shoulder. “What have my children got into this time?”

 

“It isn’t us, Papa,” Marie says, climbing up to sit beside him. “We just found Athos and told him.”

 

“Is it true?” Athos asks, panting, shoving Porthos’ hand away and reaching to grip his chin. Athos gives an impatient huff, when Porthos just looks confused, and lets him go. He lifts Francois up. “Tell them, Frankie, what you said to me.”

 

“I seen ‘em,” Francois says, grinning, reaching out to pat his father’s cheek. “Seen them coming, Papa.”

 

“See who coming, my love?” Porthos asks, taking the child out of Athos’ arms and putting him into Elodie’s, holding them both with one arm, the other around Marie.

 

“All of them,” Francois says.

 

“Charles, and Constance, and Kitty,” Marie says.

 

“d’Artagnan?” Porthos asks, displacing his family with a shake, looking around.

 

His eyes meet Athos’, and he leaps down from the table, him and Athos sprinting away around the house, calling and laughing.

 

“I wonder if he gets that excited to see me, when I’ve been away,” Elodie says, sitting in Porthos’ place. “Go on, I know you want to run after them, Francois.”

 

Francois wriggles down and takes off. Marie sits for a moment, prim and lady like, but then she too gets down and runs, skirts and hair flying around her.

 

“She’s growing a little wilder,” Madame le Muet says.

 

“She is both,” Elodie says, admiringly. “Both a proper little court lady, and a child. I’m so glad she gets to have Porthos for a father, who looks out for her wellbeing as both and ensures she has this. This space to be.”

 

“Are you going to teach her that?” Madame le Muet asks, pointing to the bow Elodie still holds.

 

“No, she wants to learn the sword,” Elodie says. “Francois wants to learn, though.”

 

There’s a sudden burst of noise, shouts and laughter, and the men come back around the house, children held in various arms, captain d’Artagnan and his family now with them. Aramis turns from the king at their voice and they go over to him. In the confusion, the king gets caught up in the hugging, and somehow ends up in Aramis’ arms. Raoul and Lucie, also shooting, join in too.

 

*

“I like captain d’Artagnan,” Madame de Chevreuse says.

 

Madame le Muet turns, startled, from the sink full of soapy water. Juliet’s drying and she’s washing, and here is the king’s governess. They’re used to their kitchen being full of various people it shouldn’t see, in proper society, but this week is supposed to be more formal. Madame de Chevreuse smiles and comes over, taking the cloth from Julie. Julie kisses Madame le Muet’s cheek and leaves quickly, grasping the opportunity of escape.

 

“Goose,” Madame le Muet calls after her, but fondly.

 

“I’ve seen her with the children. She’s smart,” Madame de Chevreuse says.

 

“Mm. She’s my daughter,” Madame le Muet says, watching Julie running across the yard toward Sylvie.

 

“I can see that, she has some of your beauty,” Madame de Chevreuse says.

 

It sets Madame le Muet’s heart beating and fluttering, which makes her a little bad tempered. She goes back to her washing, splashing more than necessary and passing the dishes roughly to Madame de Chevreuse. Madame de Chevreuse minds not a bit, seemingly, taking each dish and every single time making sure her fingers brush Madame le Muet’s. It sets a blush high in Madame le Muet’s cheeks, and she has to keep her head ducked.

 

“It’s the hot water,” she says, when Madame de Chevreuse catches the flush and touches her cheek, as if to smudge the darkness.

 

“Like roses,” Madame de Chevreuse says.

 

Madame le Muet wonders if she’s being seduced. Or if her wish to be is making her read into things that are innocent. She decides the latter, and finishes up the dishes, going to sit at the table with some wine, taking a well-earned break from the day. She offers Madame de Chevreuse a glass, too, which is accepted warmly. They sit together quietly for a while.

 

“How did you end up a governess?” Madame le Muet asks, on her second helping of the wine.

 

“Hmm, well, it’s a long story. I fell out of favour with Louis, with the old king I mean. Anne was always a friend to me, but I had to retreat from the court for a while. Then, with the war, my husband died. He spent all his money kitting out a troop of soldiers expensively, took them to the front, and got them all blown to pieces. I think Porthos might still be rather sore about that, I think he might have been there. He does not seem particularly happy with me.”

 

“It’s hardly your fault, what your husband chooses to do,” Madame le Muet says, affronted.

 

“He’s not sore with me, merely… he’s an emotional man, he always was but he seems to struggle with it.”

 

“Yes. And you ended up without financial support?”

 

“I did. Anne offered me several positions. I’ve always been fond of their son, and I like the life, so I accepted governess. I enjoy teaching, and I’m good at it. I grew up without education. My husband thought me beautiful, a nice bauble for his collection, and took me away. He had a great library and my maid knew her letters. Together, we learnt a lot.”

 

“I have my letters. My mother taught me, in secret, when my father and brother were absent from the house. I know little beyond that, though. My Julie, now. Her father made sure she got an education, from him and his friends. My son also. He’s a soldier, you know.”

 

“I did not.”

 

“Yes, he’s in the general’s- Porthos’, I mean- regiment. It’s how we ended up working for the du Vallons. Did you want children? Do you have them?”

 

“No, and no. I like them well enough, but I’m not much of a mother, I don’t think. I had a younger sister who I cared for, but when I married… I left her behind, with my aunt, and haven’t seen her since. Her or my aunt. I trust they are well. I hope.”

 

They talk late into the night, over the last of the wine, moving from family and education to more intimate things. Likes and dislikes. Loves. Old wounds, old joys. They walk up to bed arm in arm, heads bent close. They run into Porthos in the hallway, stumbling about looking dazed, and break apart to allow Madame le Muet to lead him to his bedroom. She glances back at Madame de Chevreuse and once more finds herself watched.  

*

“I can’t do nothing about that, Sylvie, and you cannot publish this from here! I will not have you turnin’ my house into one of sedition and treason!” Porthos roars, making Madame le Muet start.

 

Madame le Muet’s in the kitchen garden, picking herbs. Porthos and Sylvie had been by the wall, talking quietly. Now they’re facing off, both angry, both panting. Porthos has a scrunched handful of papers, and Sylvie has a torn edge of one. She looks near tears.

 

“It is treason to question? To educate? To want people to know?” Sylvie shouts back.

 

“Yes, if you do it like this it is,” Porthos says.

 

Athos comes out of the kitchen, drying his hands, and goes to stand with them. Porthos turns on him, waving the papers in his face.

 

“Stop,” Athos says. “I know about these, I helped write them.”

 

Porthos’ eyes go wide, and he opens his mouth, then closes it. Then his face crumples and he covers his eyes with his free hand, shaking his head.

 

“You all keep your filthy little secrets from me, eh?” Porthos mutters. “Fine. Fine, do as you like. Blacken my name, betray Anne, betray France. We’re at war, Athos. I want peace, I don’t want another war to fight, yet another war, yet another battle, with my brothers. I won’t fight my friends.”

 

“No one’s asking you to fight anything! They are educational materials. If the queen objects, then, then, then she’s stupid,” Sylvie shouts, tearing the papers from Prothos’ hands. “You’ve ruined these ones. I expect to be given the cost of them.”

 

“Sylvie, please,” Athos says. “He’s upset.”

 

“He’s upset,” Porthos repeats, mocking, head coming up. “Upset? Nah, _captain_ , I ain’t upset, I’m furious. But I can see you’re both too pig headed to listen, so I don’t care. I’m going to find my wife, and Aramis, and you can… you do whatever.”

 

Porthos stalks off, vaulting the wall, toward the field where Aramis is out with the king, flying falcons.

 

“That was interesting,” Madame de Chevreuse murmurs, suddenly at Madame le Muet’s elbow. “I wonder what Sylvie’s been printing this time? I could probably help her, I’ve still got contacts.”

 

“I think you should leave it,” Madame le Muet says, coldly. “I think they should, too, but who am I to tell them when they don’t even listen to the general?”

 

“You don’t even know-”

 

“I trust him,” Madame le Muet says, less cold, more soft. “I trust him to know, so I don’t need to. I trust that he’s looking out for this house, for his household and people who rely on him. Meaning me, as well. If he says they shouldn’t be publishing those from here, then they shouldn’t be.”

 

“I see. Yes, I quite see. I can agree with that, perhaps they should have spoken to him of it, seeing as they’re using his house,” Madame de Chevreuse says.

 

Sylvie’s sat up on the wall, talking animatedly to Athos. Madame le Muet watches them, assessing. Sylvie and Porthos aren’t close, not like Constance and Porthos, or Sylvie and d’Artagnan. Sylvie even gets on well with Aramis, and she and Constance are knit together, now they’re in the same place again. Madame le Muet finds it a little strange. She can imagine Porthos, young, being like Sylvie. So full of fire and fight and determination. Perhaps less naivety. It’s a beautiful quality, that naivety in Sylvie. Innocence and goodness and a belief in people, in heart, in great things happening in small ways. Madame le Muet admires it, sees Athos’ admiration of it. She would have expected Porthos to admire it as well, or at least respect it. He doesn’t seem to, though. It makes him impatient.

 

“They had very different beginnings, didn’t they?” Madame de Chevreuse murmurs. “Very different. Porthos must miss his mother, and the potential she gave to his childhood, very much, when he sees her. All the things his mother might have given him, that he was forced to fight and struggle for.”

 

“That you had to fight and struggle for,” Madame le Muet says.

 

“Yes, in a way. I had love, and family, though,” Madame de Chevreuse says. “I’m going to get hold of one of those pamphlets. Shall we see what it is? Perhaps, with my aid, we can move their operation away from here. I imagine, if they are asking questions and ‘educating’, Paris has a better audience anyway.”

 

Madame le Muet smiles, pleased with the way Madame de Chevreuse has diplomatically navigated a compromise between the two of them. Shown her respect for and understanding of Porthos, softening Madame le Muet, and then made a suggestion that allows them both peace of mind, assuaged curiosity. She’s a very clever woman, Madame le Muet thinks. Madame le Muet can see her getting on well with Aramis, scheming together, tempering his fire a little with a clear, cool head.

 

They go their separate ways, and Madame le Muet doesn’t see her until the next day. She’s sitting outside with Porthos, running through what food they have in stores, listening to him talk about the fields, the farm, the estate. He knows an awful lot about it for a man firmly rooted in the city. Madame le Muet suspects he’s been spending time drinking with the local farm hands. When she makes a subtle suggestion as such, he gives her a sly look, then a grin confirming it.

 

“Hey, here comes your Madame Henriette,” Porthos says, indicating.

 

Madame de Chevreuse is indeed coming up to them, dresses bright about her, hair loose for once. She sits on Porthos’ other side, on the bench they’ve staked out in the yard.

 

“This suits you,” Porthos says, touching the curls. “I haven’t seen it down.”

 

“No, it’s impractical when spying, and Anne prefers I have it braided for teaching. Yours is growing long. Look at these!”

 

She tugs one of Prothos’ curls, and he yelps, shoving her hand away, laughing.

 

“Alright, alright,” Porthos says. “Hetty. I’m so very sorry, about your husband.”

 

“I wasn’t too fond of him, it’s alright,” Madame de Chevreuse says.

 

“Yes. I’m sorry that he died like that. Took all them boys with ‘im. Turned everything sour.”

 

“Are you trying to apologise for being a cold and miserable sot with me? If so, you’re doing a terrible job.”

 

“Oh look, there’s Elodie, I better go, um, yeah,” Porthos says, jumping to his feet and striding away, tripping a little in his hurry.

 

Madame de Chevreuse laughs, face rounding into beautiful curves and her back bending gracefully with her joy. She’s still smiling when she turns to Madame le Muet.

 

“Come to my rooms, tonight, Madame. I will show you those pamphlets,” Madame de Chevreuse says, fingers touching Madame le Muet’s arm, stroking subtly.

*

Julie watches her mother. She’s sat at dinner, between Madame de Chevreuse and Sylvie, their heads bending close now and then, discussing something serious. General du Vallon is scowling across the table at them, and seems cross with captain de la Fere, as well. He’s pointedly talking to only captain d’Artagnan. Julie watches her mother, though, and the way her cheeks flush. She wonders if it’s because she feels the general’s gaze on her.

 

“Julie, Julie! Raoul is kicking me,” Marie complains.

 

“Raoul don’t kick Marie,” Julie says, turning back to her charges and catching Francois about to throw vegetables in the direction of the dogs.

 

Lucie is down under the table, playing with them, hands buried in their fur. They’re working dogs from the farm and seem quite uninterested in her. Julie lifts her back to the table and turns to request the dogs be called away. Constance notices and taps her husband’s shoulder, and he gets up and puts the dogs out of the kitchen. Francois and Lucie both gaze longingly after them, but eat more politely.

 

“Athos,” general du Vallon snaps, suddenly, startling Constance.

 

“Not here,” Athos says. “Not again. Porthos, we have had this discussion.”

 

The general scrapes his chair back from the table and throws his napkin down, storming from the room. Francois takes the opportunity to beg to leave the table, too, and Julie can hardly deny him now. Lucie goes as well, both of them running out to the dogs, pockets full of pastry to feed them. Julie sighs, but decides, tonight, to cede the field and let them play.

 

“Would you please, please, at least keep it out of his sight and hearing? Leave him out of it,” Elodie says, sounding strained and as irritated as her husband. “It is hardly polite.”

 

“He’s fine,” Athos says, waving it away.

 

“No, actually, he isn’t. That is why we are here, and you are not making it easier. Whyever it is that he is so against this, please accept that he is and give him peace of mind. Surely you can manage that.”

 

“What is the problem?” The queen asks, from the other end of the table, looking up from her conversation with the king and the minister.

 

“Nothing, ma’am,” Athos says. “A difference of opinion, that is all.”

 

“He’s not ‘fine’. He’s not okay. Please,” Elodie says.

 

“Alright. You may be right. Sylvie?” Athos says.

 

“Yes,” Sylvie says, softly, looking at the place Porthos vanished. “Yes, I apologise, I hadn’t thought. Of course, we will not bring it to his attention again. He will hear and see nothing of it.”

 

“Thank you,” Elodie says. Then she rubs her face and sighs. “I wish he’d talk to me about it. Or any of us.”

 

“He thinks he has to prove his worth,” Aramis says, also looking up from the dauphin. “To serve, to fulfill his duty. Who has ever told him otherwise? Now, let us move on?”

 

Elodie nods, but excuses herself and follows the general soon after, and Julie watches in amazement as her mother follows. That seems to be the end of dinner, and the governess also leaves.

 

*

They sit in the light of two candles, wine warmed and spiced, easy in one another’s company. Madame le Muet watches Henriette, the way of the warm light over her full cheek, the lift of her arm as she raises the glass to her lips, the red of the wine. The way she looks back at Madame le Muet.

 

“Will you come to bed?” Henriette murmurs, reaching out to touch Madame le Muet’s lips. “Antoinette. Will you come to bed with me, Antoinette?”

 

“Yes.”

 

*

Athos spends an entire day with Sylvie, re-writing their pamphlets. They're focused much more on education, now. All they do is write them, and then Madame de Chevreuse uses connections to have them printed and given out in Paris. Sylvie’s gotten caught up with Madame le Muet, though, talking about learning letters, and the possibility of giving out books. Entire books, for people to read and study from. Bibles seems to be the suggestion, to begin.

 

Athos leaves them to it and goes in search of Raoul. Then, when he discovers his son is away with Julie and Marie-Cessette in the town, he decides to walk. He follows one of Aramis’ routes, taking his time, meandering. He sparred with d’Artagnan this morning, and he can feel. He’s neither as young or as fit as he once was, while d’Artagnan seems to have hit his prime and just not left it. Though Constance says Athos now looks younger than ever, without his beard, younger even than when she first knew him.

 

That was a long long time ago. It feels like lifetimes. He’s thinking about those days, about Porthos and Aramis and the three of them, about Constance and Monsieur Bonacieux, when he comes upon Porthos. He’s lying in the grass under a tree, on his back. Athos thinks he’s napping in the sunshine and smiles, but then realises that Porthos is breathing like the bellows, and sighs instead, lowering himself to sit at his side.

 

“Hello,” Athos says.

 

“Oh, i’s you. Thought it might be. You smell like ink,” Porthos says, panting.

 

Athos ignores that. They haven’t let him hear or see anything of their pamphleting, but Porthos is too quick to think it’s over. He also has a horrible knack of knowing exactly when Athos has been working on something. Maybe he really does smell like ink. He sniffs at his fingers, and Porthos roars with laughter, sitting up.

 

“I am tired of them,” Porthos says. “That one came out of nowhere. Just was suddenly there, stuck in that muddy hell hole again.”

 

“Are they getting any better?” Athos asks, sitting close.

 

“Yes, I think. I get them much more rarely, now. I think the queen may have noticed.”

 

“That you are unwell?” Athos asks.

 

“That I’m better,” Porthos corrects.

 

Athos frowns, wondering what Porthos is getting at. Then he understands.

 

“Don’t. Don’t go back. You’ve given enough of yourself, Porthos.”

 

Porthos just grunts in response. Athos obligingly drops it. It’s not like he can talk Porthos out of it. He never has been able to persuade Porthos that he would be perfectly capable of finding himself a place beyond the army. It gave Porthos the best years of his life, the best friends, a family, Porthos always says. It’s flattering, and Athos can’t refute it.

 

“El says I’ve been sleepwalking,” Porthos says.

 

“Yes, I’ve walked you back a few times. Most of us have come across you wandering the hallways.”

 

“Can’t go meanderin’ about a battle field, eh?” Porthos says.

 

Athos smiles at the concession, linking their arms and leaning into Porthos’ shoulder.

*

Hetty’s arm is heavy and soft across Antoinette’s side, hand possessive and warm on her bottom. Antoinette wonders when waking to such intimate touch became routine, to her. She doesn’t wonder for long, though, as Hetty wakes, hand flexing. Antoinette feels Hetty grin against her shoulder, and smiles into the pillow, pretending to sleep still.

 

“I can hear you are awake,” Hetty whispers, kissing behind Antoinette’s ear, to her neck, brushing the hair aside over Antointette’s shoulder. “You are pale, Netta. You shall come out into the sunshine with his majesty and the children and I. We are walking over to the other side of the village, with General du Vallon and Captain d’Artagnan, to find an almond tree the general assures us is there.”

 

“Porthos just wants me to make him almond pastries,” Antoinette grumbles, muffled by the pillows. “He’s always coming up with ways of making the children want the same sweets as he does, so I will give in to his wishes.”

 

Hetty laughs, her breath tickling Antoinette’s shoulder. Kisses follow the tickles, over her skin, making it tingle. Antoinette shifts against the mattress, still refusing to wake up properly or turn over.

 

“You’re so beautifully white, you almost shine,” Hetty whispers, forgetting the almond trees, the sunshine, her previous comment about Antoinette needing more sun. “I like it here, best. Like snow-covered hillocks.”

 

Antoinette is a bit fuddled by that, until she feels Hetty wriggling down, hand squeezing where it’s still resting. Antoinette starts to laugh, peels of it stifled by the pillow, and turns over, displacing Hetty. Antoinette sits up and embraces her, face full of her free hair, the cascading curls tight and kinky. Antoinette gets a handful and holds Hetty close, burying her laughter. Hetty starts to laugh too, pleased with herself.

 

“I am too old to have you waking me like this,” Antoinette says, getting her breath.

 

“You are barely older than I. Besides, who says old age need preclude pleasure? I plan to continue to sate my desire as I wish, when I wish, until I can no longer walk.”

 

Antoinette laughs again.

 

*

 

“I have given up my post,” Hetty says.

 

They’re alone in the kitchen, most people out in the fields to get the grain brought in before the rain Joseph is adamant is on its way. Antoinette is making a cassoulet for the evening meal, along with a soup, and is thinking about wine. It takes her a moment to understand what Hetty has just said. Before she can respond in any coherent way, Porthos comes into the kitchen, the young king at his shoulder, Francois asleep in his arms. Porthos looks pale and anxious enough that Madame le Muet turns from Hetty and her cooking.

 

“He fell,” Porthos whispers, sinking into a chair and holding Francois.

 

Madame le Muet realises that Francois is unconscious, not asleep. Aramis comes rushing into the kitchen, crouching at Porthos’ side, and then the calm is broken as people come and go, Aramis calling orders. Porthos holds Francois the entire time, refusing to let him go, even when Elodie comes flying in to see them. Elodie sits and wraps her arms around Porthos, burying her face in his broad shoulder.

 

“He’s wakin’ up,” Porthos says. “Hello, my little prince. Papa’s here. And Maman.”

 

Francois wriggles and fusses, then rests against Porthos’ chest, turning his face away from the crowd. Aramis talks softly and turns the child’s face this way and that, then nods and straightens.

 

“He should rest. He was unconscious. I think we should give him feverfew tea, have him lie down somewhere cool and dark,” Aramis says. “He’s alright, Porthos. Just a nasty bump to the head, and a bruised shoulder.”

 

“I wasn’t watching close enough,” Porthos whispers. “Didn’t see him climbing up on there until he already had fell off. I’m sorry, Elodie, I’m sorry. I meant to watch ‘im, I did.”

 

“He’s adventurous. It’s not your fault,” Elodie says, face still hidden in her husband’s shoulder.

 

The crowd leaves the kitchen, Francois still in Porthos’ hold, Elodie staying close to them. Antoinette waits until they’re gone, then turns to Hetty, who smiles.

 

“You’re very good to everyone,” Hetty says, getting up and coming to stand close.

 

Antoinette is facing one way, Hetty the other, but Hetty is just to the left, so they’re not face to face. So Antoinette can still watch the doorway. So Antoinette can rest a hand on Hetty’s corseted stomach without anyone seeing. She rubs, then moves the hand higher, pressing over Hetty’s heart.

 

“I asked Porthos for permission to return to Paris,” Antoinette murmurs. “He gave it, of course, with that annoying little smile. He thinks he knows everything.”

 

“Does he know this?”

 

“Yes. He knows that I have fallen in love, and that previously when I loved it was also with a woman. He knows. He has offered to find me any position I want, and he has the power to do so. Their house in the city is shut up right now, but he says he can open it back up and have me keep it, pay me. He would pay me to live in Paris with little to do but run a house where no master or mistress live, where it would be only I and daily servants. Where I could be alone, with you.”

 

“I would have to return to the palace. My duties there are more rigorous than they are here,” Hetty says.

 

“Your charge, your friends.”

 

“I will miss them sorely, but it is my life. I deserve my own happiness, don’t I? No. We will stay here, and help build this community. I will teach. I will have time to sit in the kitchen with you, time to rest beside you, nights to spend with you.”

 

“Then we will stay.”

 

*

 

“This is beautiful. Did you carve it?”

 

“I was helping Joseph with some carpentry. He’s making furniture for people, fixing the old chairs and tables and so on. I took a piece of the wood and some tools, thought I might try my hand at making something.”

 

“It’s so very lovely.”

 

“The wood is so dark and rich, I thought it complimented your skin. And here, look, there’s this reddish bruise on it, like the colour on your cheeks when you flush.”

 

Hetty flushes now, turning the small wooden box in her hands. She hasn’t opened it yet. Antoinette is patiently waiting for her to find the catch, the secret way to slide the panels so the lid springs open. Her thumb gets one by accident, and then she examines it, exclaiming in surprise at the mechanism.

 

“Joseph showed me how to do that,” Antoinette says. “He did a lot of the work, to get it to-”

 

The box opens, and Hetty lifts the lid, and flushes again, smiling. She lifts the combs one by one, delighting at their bright workings.

 

“They are not jeweled, merely some glass,” Antoinette says. “Against your hair, though, they will sparkle.”

 

“I love them, thank you. I have nothing for you.”

 

“You will give me equal gifts, in time. It is not reciprocation I am looking for. I like giving you this, I like the smiles and joy. I know that it is as much for me, for my thinking of you, as it is for the things I have given.”

 

“Come to bed.”

 

“You have class to teach, and I have cooking to do! I promised also to help Joseph some more.”

 

“Tell them you have a headache. I will ask Madame Hubert to take my lesson. Or the general might take the children into the fields, or up to the barn to see the work.”

 

Antoinette covers her mouth, then goes to tell everyone she is tired, her head aches, that she needs to rest.

 

*

Julie watches her mother, startled, as she rushes through, flushed, bright, telling everyone she is unwell. When Julie sees her vanish into Madame Henriette Vallette de Chevreuse’s rooms, she has a sudden understanding. It is not the general her mother has a fancy for.

 

*

 

Athos finds Porthos and Aramis sitting together, heads bent, silence between them. Porthos looks absolutely miserable, and Aramis looks as if his heart is breaking. Athos considers leaving them, but doesn’t. He sits beside Porthos, and Porthos leans into him.

 

“He’s leavin’,” Porthos whispers. “Goin’ back with the queen.”

 

“My wife,” Aramis says. “With my wife, and my son. The rumours have died down, in town. I am Minister to France. I am needed. It is my duty, surely you understand?”

 

“You been spending an awful lot of time, lately, talking to me about how I owe more to myself than to my duty.”

 

“My heart lies with them, as well as with you. I cannot… I have to split myself, over and over, Porthos, please,” Aramis says.

 

“I could come,” Porthos says.

 

“No,” Athos says. “Stay. We will still see a lot of Aramis, and he will write. Weekly.”

 

“I will,” Aramis agrees quickly. “I will visit often, and the queen will receive you at court, and I will… I will come back and visit. It won’t be like last time.”

 

“Wish it were me leaving,” Porthos mutters, a little mutinously.

 

“You’ve done your fair share of that,” Aramis says.

 

“Okay. Okay, alright. I’m just sulking, I guess,” Porthos says.

 

The royal party leaves the next morning, Aramis mounted beside the carriage that carries the queen and king. He doesn’t look back, and Porthos, after saying his goodbyes, doesn’t watch them leaving. Athos watches, and then finds Porthos.

 

“I’m a’right,” Porthos assures, sitting in the kitchen by the stove, despite it being warm out.

 

“Have you guys seen Kitty?” d’Artagnan asks, coming in after Athos. “Oh, sorry. Alright, Porthos?”

 

“Yeah, I’m fine. She’s with Julie, upstairs,” Porthos says.

 

“Constance and I thought we might stay another month or two,” d’Artagnan says.

 

“Charles, I’m fine. I don’t need that,” Porthos says.

 

“Would you like it, though?” d’Artagnan asks, grinning.

 

“Yeah, alright,” Porthos says.

 

d’Artagnan nods and leaves, and Athos steps forwards. Elodie comes in, though, and Athos just shakes his head, gives Porthos a quick hug, and leaves them alone.

 

*

 

“I have a letter for the general,” Julie says, coming into the kitchen.

 

Antoinette, holding hands with Hetty and watching the sunset from the herb garden, lets go and peers around the door to wave Julie over.

 

“Why are you bringing it to me?” she asks, taking the letter, sealed with the royal stamp.

 

“No one’s here, everyone’s gone to the harvest festival at church,” Julie says. “The messenger is waiting, he says it’s urgent.”

 

“Let me find Mousqueton,” Antoinette says, already hurrying into the house.

 

Mousqueton is in the office Porthos uses on the rare occasions he does paperwork. He’s doing Porthos’ work, in all probability. Madam le Muet passes on Julie’s message and hands over the letter. Mousqueton breaks the seal and reads it idly, then sits up straight, then leaps to his feet and runs out. Moments later he’s riding away on a fast horse.

 

He returns twenty minutes later, Pothos at his back. Porthos swings out of the saddle and runs for the messenger, having a quick, heated conversation. The messenger heads for the kitchen and Porthos stops, staring at the letter, then sends Mousqueton away and walks briskly. Antoinette follows, and sees him sink to his knees in the stable, out of sight.

 

“Porthos,” she says, going to kneel beside him.

 

“It’s from the cardinal, from Mazarin. He wants… he wants something of me. He has a mission he says needs my attention. He’s calling me back.”

 

“Aramis said that you thought there was nothing for you, beyond duty. That you weren’t any use beyond that.”

 

“I like the way people look at me as a soldier better than otherwise,” Porthos says. “Praise and glory, you see.”

 

“I do see. I also see that you are tired of it, and that you have served above and beyond, and that no one has any right to ask more of you. Does the letter bear the queen’s signature?”

 

“Yes. And ‘er seal. She approves.”

 

“You know that Hetty and I are helping Sylvie? That we attempt to provide education?”

 

“Yes,” Porthos says. “Yes, I know of your treason.”

 

“When, do you think, loyalty turns into exhaustion? When, do you think, loyalty and duty blend into not having the energy to fight for yourself?”

 

“When there’s no self left to fight for.”

 

“There’s so much self. Look at what you’ve built. Look at your children, how loved they are. Look at the loyalty you inspire in people. Freely given. Love and loyalty. Passion. For people and place and home. Look around you, general.”

 

“I don’t want to go,” Porthos breathes, very quietly.

 

And then he shudders, sinks further to the floor, and starts to weep. It’s a silent, wrenching purge, and Antoinette can do nothing but look on. It goes a long time, well past the others returning from church. Mousqueton pokes his head in, but then keeps everyone out. Except Elodie. Elodie comes and sits, gathering Porthos to her, into her arms, against herself.

 

Athos comes too, and then d’Artagnan. They gather around him and sit quietly while he weeps and weeps, grief washing over him and over him, washing him away. Or perhaps washing him back to them. Antoinette gets to her feet and leaves them alone, once she’s sure they understand the situation. She goes back to the garden, and Hetty is waiting for her. She rests her head on Hetty’s shoulder and sheds a few of her own tears.

 

“You’re so good to everyone,” Hetty murmurs. “Tomorrow you are going to sit with Joseph again? Let him teach you?”

 

“Yes,” Antoinette says. “I enjoy it. The wood, working with my hands. It’s a kind of beauty, isn’t it?”

 

“Everything you set your mind to is a kind of beauty.”

 

“I don’t know how to shape words like you do,” Antoinette says. “I admire you and think you’re wonderful, but I don’t know how to just say it, like that. You’re so clever and so kind.”

 

“I’m not kind, I have no wish to be kind. I am clever, though.”

 

“You’re kind to me.”

 

“Yes, well.”

 

Antoinette sits up, and they hold hands again, watching the sun sink below the horizon.

 

*

 

“This is a toast, to those who have chosen this place, have chosen to build it. A thanks, as well, for making a it a place we can all call ‘home’. It is thanks to all of you that I am here, eating with you, working with you. It’s not always easy to find loyalty, duty. It’s not easy to decide what to think, what to feel, who to be. But I am Porthos by my grandfather, du Vallon by my mother, Marquis de Belgard by my father, general of France by the queen. Slave, by my mother, my grandmother. Musketeer, by my brothers. Husband, by my wife, father by my children. Soldier, but in the past, now. There are so many people to be, so much I have done, so many skills I have to offer. I offer them. Each of you have your story, each of you have your skills and strengths. I thank you for what you can offer. To community, friends, family, and home.”

  
  
  
  
  



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